O'er golden fands let rich Pactolus flow,
And trees weep amber on the banks of Po;
Bleft Thames's fhores the brightest beauties yield,
Feed here my lambs, I'll seek no distant field.
Celestial Venus haunts Idalia's groves;
Diana Cynthus, Ceres Hybla loves:
If Windsor shades delight the matchless maid,
Cynthus and Hybla yield to Windfor-shade.
All nature mourns, the skies relent in showers, Hufh'd are the birds, and clos'd the drooping flowers; If Delia fmile, the flowers begin to spring,
The skies to brighten, and the birds to fing.
Ver. 61. It ftood thus at firft:
Let rich Iberia golden fleeces boast,
Her purple wool the proud Affyrian coast,
Bleft Thames's fhores, &c.
Ver. 61. Originally thus in the MS.
Go, flowery wreath, and let my Sylvia know,
Compar'd to thine how bright her beauties show:
Then die; and dying, teach the lovely maid
How foon the brightest beauties are decay'd.
Go, tuneful bird, that pleas'd the woods fo long,
Of Amaryllis learn a fweeter fong:
To Heav'n arifing then her notes convey,
For Heav'n alone is worthy fuch a lay.
All nature laughs, the groves are fresh and fair,
The fun's mild luftre warms the vital air;
If Sylvia smiles, new glories gild the shore,
And vanquish'd nature feems to charm no more.
In fpring the fields, in autumn hills I love, At morn the plains, at noon the fhady grove, But Delia always; absent from her fight,
Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight.
Sylvia's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May, More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day; E'en spring displeases, when she shines not here; But, blefs'd with her, 'tis fpring throughout the year.
Say, Daphnis, fay, in what glad foil
A wondrous Tree that facred Monarchs bears:
Tell me but this, and I'll disclaim the prize,
And give the conqueft to thy Sylvia's eyes.
Nay, tell me firft, in what more happy fields The Thistle springs, to which the Lily yields:
Ver. 69. &c. These verses were thus at first :
All nature mourns, the birds their fongs deny,
Nor wafted brooks the thirsty flowers fupply;
If Delia fmile, the flowers begin to fpring,
The brooks to murmur, and the birds to fing.
And then a nobler prize I will refign;
For Sylvia, charming Sylvia, fhall be thine. ·
Ceafe to contend; for, Daphnis, I decree,
The bowl to Strephon, and the lamb to thee.
Bleft Swains, whose Nymphs in every grace excell; 95
Bleft Nymphs, whofe Swains those graces fing fo well!
Now rife, and hafte to yonder woodbine bowers,
A foft retreat from fudden vernal showers;
The turf with rural dainties shall be crown'd,
While opening blooms diffuse their sweets around. 100
For fee! the gathering flocks to shelter tend,
And from the Pleiads fruitful fhowers defcend.
The turf with country dainties shall be spread,
And trees with twining branches shade your head.
A Shepherd's Boy (he feeks no better name)
Led forth his flocks along the filver Thame,
Where dancing fun-beams on the waters play'd,
And verdant alders form'd a quivering shade.
Soft as he mourn'd, the ftreams forgot to flow,
The flocks around a dumb compassion show,
The Naiads wept in every watery bower,
And Jove confented in a filent shower.
Accept, O Garth, the Mufe's early lays,
That adds this wreath of ivy to thy bays;
Ver. 1, 2, 3, 4. were thus printed in the first edition
A faithful swain, whom Love had taught to fing,
Bewail'd his fate befide a filver fpring;
Where gentle Thames his winding waters leads
Thro' verdant forests, and thro' flowery meads.
Ver. 3. Originally thus in the MS.
There to the winds he plain'd his hapless love,
And Amaryllis fill'd the vocal grove.
Hear what from Love unpractis'd hearts endure,
From Love, the sole disease thou canst not cure.
Ye shady beeches, and ye cooling streams,
Defence from Phoebus', not from Cupid's beams,
To you I mourn, nor to the deaf I fing,
The woods shall anfwer, and their echo ring.
The hills and rocks attend my doleful lay,
Why art thou prouder and more hard than they?
The bleating sheep with my complaints agree,
They parch'd with heat, and I inflam'd by thee.
The fultry Sirius burns the thirsty plains,
While in thy heart eternal winter reigns.
Where stray ye, Muses, in what lawn or grove,
While your Alexis pines in hopeless love?
In those fair fields where facred Ifis glides,
Or elfe where Cam his winding vales divides?
As in the crystal spring I view my face,
Fresh rifing blushes paint the watery glass ;
But fince thofe graces please thy eyes no more,
I fhun the fountains which I fought before.
Once I was skill'd in every herb that grew,
And every plant that drinks the morning dew;
Ah, wretched fhepherd, what avails thy art,
To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart!
Oft in the cryftal fpring I caft a view,
And equal'd Hylas, if the glafs be true;
But face thofe graces meet my eyes no more,
Ifhun, &c.
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