Pastoral. Nor did my search of liberty begin
Till my black hairs were chang'd upon my chin;
Nor Amaryllis would vouchsafe a look,
Till Galatea's meaner bonds I broke.
Till then a helpless, hopeless, homely swain,
I sought not freedom, nor aspir'd to gain:
Tho' many a victim from my folds was bought,
And many a cheese to country markets brought,
Yet all the little that I got I spent,
And still return'd as empty as I went.
Mel. We stood amaz'd to see your mistress mourn, Unknowing that she pin'd for your return; We wonder'd why she kept her fruit so long, For whom so late th' ungather'd apples hung: But now the wonder ceases, since I see She kept them only, Tityrus, for thee: For thee the bubbling springs appear'd to mourn, And whisp'ring pines made vows for thy return.
Tit. What should I do? while here I was enchain'd,
No glimpse of godlike liberty remain'd;
Nor could I hope in any place but there
To find a god so present to my pray'r.
There first the youth of heav'nly birth I view'd,
For whom our monthly victims are renew'd.
He heard my vows, and graciously decreed
My grounds to be restor'd my former flocks to feed.
Mel. O fortunate old man! whose farm remains
For you sufficient, and requites your pains,
Though rushes overspread the neighb'ring plains,
Tho' here the marshy grounds approach your fields,
And there the soil a stony harvest yields.
Your teeming ewes shall no strange meadows try,
Nor fear a rot from tainted company.
Behold yon bord'ring fence of sallow trees
Is fraught with flow'rs, the flow'rs are fraught with bees:
The busy bees, with a soft murm'ring strain,
Invite to gentle sleep the lab'ring swain:
While from the neighb'ring rock with rural songs
The pruner's voice the pleasing dream prolongs;
Stock doves and turtles tell their am'rous pain,
And, from the lofty elms, of love complain.
Tit. Th' inhabitants of seas and skies shall change,
And fish on shore and stags in air shall range,
The banish'd Parthian dwell on Arar's brink,
And the blue German shall the Tigris drink;
Ere I, forsaking gratitude and truth,
Forget the figure of that godlike youth.
Mel. But we must beg our bread in climes unknown, Beneath the scorching or the freezing zone;
And some to far Oaxis shall be sold,
Or try the Libyan heat or Scythian cold;
The rest among the Britons be confin'd,
A race of men from all the world disjoin'd.
O! must the wretched exiles ever mourn!
Nor after length of rolling years return?
Are we condemn'd by Fate's unjust, decree,
No more our houses and our homes to see?
Or shall we mount again the rural throne,
And rule the country, kingdoms once our own?
Did we for these barbariaus plant and sow,
On these, on these, our happy fields, bestow ?
Good heav'n, what dire effects from civil discords flow!
Now let me graft my pears, and prune the vine;
The fruit is theirs, the labour only mine.
Farewel my pastures, my paternal stock!
My fruitful fields and my more fruitful flock!
No more, my goats, shall I behold you climb
The steepy cliffs, or crop the flow'ry thyme;
No more extended in the grot below,
Shall see you browzing on the mountain's brow
The prickly shrubs, and after on the bare
Lean down the deep abyss and hang in air!
No more my sheep shall sip the morning dew;
No more my song shall please the rural crew:
Adieu, my tuneful pipe! and all the world, adieu!
Tit. This night, at least, with me forget your care;
Chesnuts and curds and cream shall be your fare:
The carpet-ground shall be with leaves o'erspread,
And boughs shall weave a cov'ring for your head :
For see yon sunny hill the slade extends,
And curling smoke from cottages ascends.
Spenser was the first of our countrymen who acquired any considerable reputation by this method of writing. We shall insert his sixth eclogue, or that for June, which is allegorical, as will be seen by the
ARGUMENT. "Hobbinol, from a description of the pleasures of the place, excites Colin to the enjoyment of them. Colin declares himself incapable of delight by reason of his ill success in love, and his loss of Rosalind, who had treacherously forsaken him for Menalcas another shepherd. By Tityrus (mentioned before in Spenser's second eclogue, and again in the twelfth) is plainly meant Chaucer, whom the author sometimes professed to imitate. In the person of Colin is represented the author himself; and Hobbinol's inviting him to leave the hill country, seems to allude to his leaving the north, where, as is mentioned in his life, he had for some time resided."
Hob. Lo! Colin, here the place, whose pleasant sight
From other shades hath wean'd my wand'ring mind:
Tell me, what wants me here, to work delight?
The simple air, the gentle warbling wind,
So calm, so cool, as nowhere else I find :
The grassy ground with dainty daisies dight,
The bramble-bush, where birds of every kind
To th' water's fall their tunes attemper right.
Col. O happy Hobbinol, I bless thy state,
That paradise hast found which Adam lost.
Here wander may thy flock early or late,
Withouten dread of wolves to been ytost;
Thy lovely lays here. mayst thou freely boast:
But I, unhappy man! whom cruel fate,
And angry gods, pursue from coast to coast,
Can nowhere find to shroud my luckless pate.
Hob. Then if by me thou list advised be,
Forsake the soil that so doth thee bewitch:
Leave me those hills, where harbroughnis to see,
Nor holly bush, nor brere, nor winding ditch;
And to the dales resort, where shepherds rich,
And fruitful flocks been everywhere to see:
Here no night-ravens lodge, more black than pitch, Nor elvish ghosts, nor ghastly owls do flee.
But friendly faies met with many graces, And light-foot nymphs can chace the ling'ring night, With heydeguies, and trimly trodden traces; Whilst sisters nine, which dwell on Parnass? height, Do
Do make them music, for their more delight; And Pan himself to kiss their crystal faces,
Will pipe and dance, when Phoebe shineth bright: Such peerless pleasures have we in these places.
Col. And I whilst youth, and course of careless years, Did let me walk withouten links of love,
In such delights did joy amongst my peers:
But riper age such pleasures doth reprove,
My fancy eke from former follies move
To strayed steps for time in passing wears
(As garments doen, which waxen old above) And draweth new delights with, hoary hairs.
Though couth I sing of love, and tune my pipe Unto my plaintive pleas in verses made:
Though would I seek for queen-apples unripe To give my Rosalind, and in sommer shade
Dight gawdy girlonds was my common trade,
To crown her golden locks: but years more ripe,
And loss of her, whose love as life I wayde,
Those weary wanton toys away did wipe.
Hob. Colin, to hear thy rhymes and roundelays,
Which thou wert wont on wasteful hills to sing,
I more delight, than lark in sommer days:
Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring,
And, taught the birds, which in the lower spring
Did shroud in shady leaves from sunny rays,
Frame to thy song their cheerful cheriping,
Or hold their peace, for shame of thy sweet lays.
I saw Calliope with muses moe,
Soon as thy oaten pipe began to sound,
Their ivory lutes and tamburins forego,
And from the fountain, where they sate around,
Ren after hastily thy silver sound.
But when they came, where thou thy skill didst show,
They drew aback, as half with shame confound,
Shepherd to see, them in their art outgo.
Col. Of muses, Hobbinol, I con no skill. For they been daughters of the highest Jove,
And holden scorn of homely shepherds quill: For sith I heard that Pan with Phoebus strove Which him to much rebuke and danger drove, I never list presume to Parnass' hill,
But piping low, in shade of lowly grove,
I play to please myself, albeit ill.
Of that the spring was in his learned hed,
I soon would learn these woods to wail my woe, And teach the trees their trickling tears to shed. Then would my plaints, caus'd of discourtesee, As messengers of this my painful flight,
Fly to my love, wherever that she be,
And pierce her heart with point of worthy wight;
As she deserves, that wrought so deadly spight.
And thou, Menalcas, that by treachery
Didst underfong my lass to wax so light,
Should'st well be known for such thy villany.
But since I am not, as I wish I were,
Ye gentle shepherds, which your flocks do feed,
Whether on hills or dales, or other where,
Bear witness all of this so wicked deed:
And tell the lass, whose flower is wore a weed, And faultless faith is turn'd to faithless seere,
That she the truest shepherd's heart made bleed, That lives on earth, and loved her most dear.
Hob. O careful Colin, I lament thy case, Thy tears would make the hardest flint to flow! Ab! faithless Rosalind, and void of grace, That art the root of all this rueful woe!
But now is time, I guess, homeward to go; Then rise, ye blessed flocks, and home apace Lest night with stealing steps do you foreslo, And wet your tender lambs that by you trace.
By the following eclogue the reader will perceive that Philips. Mr Philips has, in imitation of Spenser, preserved in his pastorals many antiquated words, which, though they are discarded from polite conversation, may naturally be supposed still to have place among the shepherds and other rustics in the country. We have made choice of his second eelogue, because it is brought home to his own business, and contains a complaint against those who. had spoken ill of him and his writings. THENOT, COLINET.
Th. Is it not Colinet 1 lonesome see
Leaning with folded arms against the tree?
Or is it age of late bedims my sight?
"Tis Colinet, indeed, in woful plight.
Thy cloudy look, why melting into tears,
Unseemly, now the sky so bright appears?
Why in this mournful manner art thou found,
Nought weigh I, who my song doth praise or blame, Unthankful lad, when all things smile around?
Ne strive to win renown, or pass the rest :
With shepherds fits not follow flying fame,
But feed his flocks in fields, where falls him best.
I wot my rimes been rough, and rudely drest;
The fitter they, my careful case to frame:
Enough is me to paint out my unrest,
And pour my piteous plaints out in the same.
The God of shepherds, Tityrus, is dead,
Who taught me homely, as I can, to make:
He, whilst he lived, was the sov'reign head'
Of shepherds all, that been with love ytake.
Well couth he wail his woes, and lightly slake
The flames which love within his heart had bred,
And tell us merry tales to keep us wake,
The while our sheep about us safely fed.
Now dead he is, and lieth wrapt in lead,
(O why should death on him such outrage show!)
And all his passing skill with him is fled,
The fame whereof doth daily greater grow.
But if on me some little drops would flow
Or hear'st not lark and linnet jointly sing,
Their notes blithe-warbling to salute the spring?
Co. Tho' blithe their notes, not so my wayward fate;
Nor lark would sing, nor linnet, in my state.
Each creature, Thenot, to his task is born;
As they to mirth and music, I to mourn.
Waking, at midnight, I my woes renew,
My tears oft mingling with the falling dew.
Th. Small cause, I ween, has lusty youth to plain;
Or who may then the weight of eld sustain,
When every slackening nerve begins to fail,
And the load presseth as our days prevail?
Yet though with years my body downward tend,
As trees beneath their fruit in autumn bend,
Spite of my snowy head and icy veins,
My mind a cheerful temper still retains;
And why should man, misbap what will, repine,
Sour every sweet, and mix with tears his wine?
But tell me then; it may relieve thy woe,
To let a friend thine inward ailment know.
Co. Tdly 'twill waste thee, Thenot, the whole day, Should'st thou give ear to all my grief can say. Thine ewes will wander; and the heedless lambs, In loud complaints, require their absent dams.
Th. See Lightfoot; he shall tend them close: and I, "Tween whiles, across the plain will glance mine eye. Co. Where to begin I know not, where to end. Does there one smiling hour my youth attend? Though few my days, as well my follies show, Yet are those days all clouded o'er with wo: No happy gleam of sunshine doth appear, My low'ring sky and wint'ry months to cheer. My piteous plight in yonder naked tree, Which bears the thunder scar too plain, I sce: Quite destitute it stands of shelter kind, The mark of storms, and sport of every wind; The riven trunk feels not the approach of spring; Nor birds among the leafless branches sing: No more, beneath thy shade, shall shepherds throng With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleasant song. Ill-fated tree! and more ill-fated I!
From thee, from me, alike the shepherds fly.
Th. Sure thou in hapless hour of time was born,
When blightning mildews spoil the rising corn.
Or blasting winds o'er blossom'd hedge-rows pass,
To kill the promis'd fruits, and scorch the
grass,
Or when the moon, by wizard charm'd, foreshows,
Blood-stain'd in foul eclipse, impending woes.
Untimely born, ill luck betides thee still.
Co. And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill?
The Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our sheep.:
From these good shepherd's care his flock may keep;
Against ill luck, alas! all forecast fails;
Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, avails.
Co. Ab me, the while! ah me, the luckless day!
Ah luckless lad! befits me more to say.
Unhappy hour! when fresh in youthful bud,
I left, Sabrina fair, thy silv'ry flood.
Ah silly I! more silly than my sheep,
Which on thy flow'ry banks I wont to keep.
Sweet are thy banks; oh, when shall I once more
With ravish'd eyes review thine amell'd shore?
When in the crystal of thy waters, scan
Each feature faded, and my colour wan?
When shall I see my hut, the small abode
Myself did raise and cover o'er with sod?
Small though it be, a mean and humble cell,
Yet is there room for peace and me to dwell.
Th. And what inticement charm'd thee far away From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart astray?
Co. A lewd desire strange lands and swains to know.
Ah me! that ever I should covet woe.
With wand'ring feet unblest, and fond of fame,
I sought I know not what besides a name.
Th. Or, sooth to say, didst thou not hither rome
In search of gains more plenty than at home?
A rolling stone is ever bare of moss;
And, to their cost, green years old proverbs cross.
Co. Small need there was, in random search of gain,
To drive my pining flock athwart the plain
To distant Cam. Fine gain at length, I trow,
To hoard up to myself such deal of woe!
My sheep quite spent through travel and ill fare,
And like their keeper ragged grown and bare.
The damp cold green sward for my nightly bed,
And some slaunt willow's trunk to rest my
Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain;
And hard is want to the unpractis'd swain;
But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard,
To blasting storms of calumny compar'd :
Unkind as hail it falls; the pelting show'r.
Destroys the tender herb and budding flow'r.
Th. Sander we shepherds count the vilest wrong:
And what wounds sorer than an evil tongue?
Co. Untoward lads, the wanton imps of spite
Make mock of all the ditties 1 endite.
In vain, O Colinet, thy voice so shrill,
Charms every vale, and gladdens every hill:
In vain thou seek'st the coverings of the grove,
In the cool shade to sing the pains of love:
Sing what thou wilt, ill-nature will prevail;
And every elf hath skill enough to rail.
But yet, though poor and artless be
my vein,
Menalcas seems to like my simple strain :
And while that he delighteth in my song,
Which to the good Menalcas doth belong,
Nor night nor day shall my rude music cease;
I ask no more, so I Menalcas please.
Th Menalcas, lord of these fair fertile plains,
Preserves the sheep, and o'er the shepherds reigns;
For him our yearly wakes and feasts we hold,
And choose the fairest firstlings from the fold;
He, good to all who good deserves, shall give
Thy flock to feed, and thee at ease to live,
Shall curb the malice of unbridled tongues,
And bounteously reward thy rural songs.
Co. First then shall lightsome birds forget to fly, The briny ocean turn to pastures dry, And every rapid river cease to flow, Ere I unmindful of Menalcas grow.
Th. This night thy care with me forget, and fold Thy flock with mine, to ward th' injurious cold. New milk, and clouted cream, mild cheese and curd, With some remaining fruit of last year's hoard, Shall be our ev'ning fare; and, for the night, Sweet herbs and moss, which gentle sleep invite : And now behold the sun's departing ray, O'er yonder hill, the sign of ebbing day: With songs the jovial hinds return from plow; And unyok'd heifers, loitering homeward, low.
Mr Pope's Pastorals next appeared, but in a different Pope. dress from those of Spenser or Philips; for he has discarded all antiquated words, drawn his swains more modern and polite, and made his numbers exquisitely harmonious his eclogues therefore may be called better poems, but not better pastorals. We shall insert the eclogue he has inscribed to Mr Wycherly, the beginning of which is in imitation of Virgil's first pastoral.
Beneath the shade a spreading beech displays,
Hylas and Egon sung their rural lays :
This mourn'd a faithless, that an absent love,
And Delia's name and Doris fill'd the grove.
Ye Mantuan nymphs, your sacred succour bring;
Hylas and gon's rural lays I sing.
Thou, whom the nine with Plautus' wit inspire,
The art of Terence, and Menander's fire :
Whose sense instructs us, and whose humour charms,
Whose judgment sways us, and whose spirit warms!
Pastoral Oh, skill'd in nature! see the hearts of swains,
Their artless passions, and their tender pains.
Now setting Phoebus shone serenely bright,
And fleecy clouds were streak'd with purple light;
When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan,
Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.
As some sad turtle his lost love deplores,
And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores;
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, unpity'd, and forlorn.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
For her the feather'd quires neglect their song;
For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny;
For her, the lilies hang their head and die.
Ye flow'rs, that droop forsaken by the spring;
Ye birds, that left by summer cease to sing;
Ye trees, that fade when autumn's heats remove;
Say, is not absence death to those who love?
Go, gentle gales, and bear thy sighs away!
Curs'd be the fields that cause my Delia's stay:
Fade ev'ry blossom, wither ev'ry tree,
Die ev'ry flow'r, and perish all but she.
What have I said? where'er my Delia flies,
Let spring attend, and sudden flow'rs arise;
Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from ev'ry thorn.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
The birds shall cease to tune their ev'ning song,
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And streams to murmur ere I cease to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain,
Not balmy sleep to lab'rers faint with pain,
Not show'rs to larks, or sunshine to the bee,
Are half so charming as thy sight to me.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
Come, Delia, come! ah, why this long delay?
Through rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds;
Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds.
Ye pow'rs, what pleasing frenzy soothes my mind!
Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?
She comes, my
Delia comes -now cease, my lay;
And cease, ye gales, to hear my sighs away!
Next Ægon sung, while Windsor groves admir'd;
Rehearse, ye muses, what yourselves inspir'd.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Of perjur'd Doris, dying, I complain :
Here where the mountains, less'ning as they rise,
Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies;
While lab'ring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
In their loose traces from the field retreat;
While curling smoke from village-tops are seen,
And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Beneath yon poplar oft we pass'd the day;
Oft on the rind I carv'd her am'rous vows,
While she with garlands hung the bending boughs:
The garlands fade, the boughs are worn away;
So dies her love, and so my hopes decay.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain;
Now golden fruits in loaded branches shine,
And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove: Just gods! shall all things yield return but love?
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! The shepherds cry, "Thy flocks are left a prey.". Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep, Who lost my heart, while I preserv'd my sheep? Pan came, and ask'd, what magic caus'd my smart, Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart? What eyes but hers, alas! have pow'r to move And is there magic but what dwells in love?
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains!
I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flow'ry plains.-
From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove,
Forsake mankind, and all the world—but love!
I know thee, Love! wild as the raging main,
More fell than tygers on the Libyan plain :
Thou wert from Ætna's burning entrails torn,
Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Farewel, ye woods, adieu the light of day!
One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains.
No more, ye bills, no more resound my strains!
Thus sung the shepherds till th' approach of night,
The skies yet blushing with departing light,
When falling dews with spangles deck the glade,
And the low sun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade.
To these pastorals, which are written agreeably to the Gay. taste of antiquity, and the rules above prescribed, we shall beg leave to subjoin another that may be called burlesque pastoral, wherein the ingenious author, Mr Gay, has ventured to deviate from the beaten road, and described the shepherds and ploughmen of our own time and country, instead of those of the golden age, to which the modern critics confine the pastoral. His six pastorals, which he calls the Shepherd's Week, are a beautiful and lively representation of the manners, customs, and notions of our rustics. We shall insert the first of them, intitled The Squabble, wherein two clowns try to outdo each other in singing the praises of their sweethearts, leaving it to a third to determine the controversy. The persons named are Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, and Cloddipole.
Lob. Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake;
No throstle shrill the bramble-bush forsake;
No chirping lark the welkin sheen* invokes ;
No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes ;
O'er yonder hil! does scant + the dawn appear;
Then why does Cuddy leave his cott so rear ?
Cud. Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween § my plight is guest; § Conceive,
For he that loves, a stranger is to rest.
If swains belye not, thou hast proved the smart,
And Blouzalinda's mistress of thy heart.
This rising tear betokeneth well thy mind;
Those arms are folded for thy Blouzalind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree;
Thee Blouzalinda smites, Buxoma me.
Lob. Ah Blouzalind! I love thee more by half,
Than deer their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf.
Woe worth the tongue, may blisters sore it gall,
That names Buxoma Blouzalind withal.
Cud. Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise,
Lest blisters sore on thy own tongue arise.
Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithsome swain,
The wisest lout of all the neighb'ring plain!
While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise, Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoes prize.
Pastoral. From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies, To know when hail will fall, or winds arise. *Formerly. He taught us erst* the heifer's tail to view,
When stuck aloft, that show'rs would straight ensue :
He first that useful secret did explain,
That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain.
When swallows fleet soar high and sport in air,
He told us that the welkin would be clear.
Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse,
And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse.
I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee,
That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.
Lob. See this tobacco-pouch, that's lin❜d with hair,
Made of the skin of sleekest fallow-deer:
This pouch, that's tied with tape of reddest hue,
I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.
Cud. Begin thy carrols, then, thou vaunting slouch ;
Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.
Lob. My Blouzalinda is the blithest lass,
Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass.
Fair is the king-cup that in meadows blows;
Fair is the daisy that beside her grows ;
Fair is the gilly-flow'r of gardens sweet;
Fair is the marygold, for pottage meet:
But Blouzalind's than gilly-flower more fair,
Than daisy, marygold, or king-cup rare.
Cud. My brown Buxoma is the featest maid
That e'er at wake delightsome gambol play'd;
Clean as young lambkins, or the goose's down,
And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.
The witless lamb may sport upon the plain,
The frisking kid delight the gaping swain;
The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,
Nimblest. And my cur Tray play deftest † feats around:
But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray,
Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.
Lob. Sweet is my toil when Blouzalind is near;
Of her bereft, 'tis winter all the year.
With her no sultry summer's heat I know;
In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow.
Come, Blouzalinda, ease thy swain's desire,
My summer's shadow, and my winter's fire!
Cud. As with Buxoma once I work'd at hay,
E'en noon-tide labour seem'd an holiday;
And holidays, if haply she were gone,
Like worky-days I wish'd would soon be done.
Eftsoons 1, O sweetheart kind, my love repay,
And all the year shall then be holiday.
Lob. As Blouzalinda, in a gamesome mood,
Behind a hay-cock loudly laughing stood,
I slily ran and snatch'd a hasty kiss;
She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amiss.
Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to say,
Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay.
Cud. As my Buxoma, in a morning fair,
With gentle finger stroak'd her milky care,
I quaintly stole a kiss; at first, 'tis true,
She frown'd, yet after granted one or two.
Lobbin, I swear, believe who will my vows,
Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cows.
Lob. Leek to the Welsh, to Dutchmen butter's dear,
Of Irish swains potatoes are the cheer;
Oats for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind,
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzalind :
Cud. In good roast beef my landlord sticks his knife, The capon fat delights his dainty wife ; Pudding our parson eats, the squire loves hare; But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare. While she loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be, Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.
Lob. As once I play'd at blind man's buff, it hapt About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt :
I miss'd the swains, and seiz'd on Blouzalind;
True speaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind.
Cud. As at hot-cockles once I laid me down,
And felt the weighty hand of many a clown;
Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I
Quick rose, and read soft mischief in her eye.
Lob. On two near elms the slacken'd cord I hung ; Now high, now low, my Blouzalinda swung; With the rude wind her rumpled garment rose, And show'd ber taper leg and scarlet hose.
Cud. Across the fallen oak the plank I laid,
And myself pois'd against the tott'ring maid!
High leapt the plank, and down Buxoma fell;
I spy'd-but faithful sweethearts never tell.
Lob. This riddle, Cuddy, if thou canst, explain,
This wily riddle puzzles every swain:
What flow'r is that which bears the virgin's name,
The richest metal joined with the same * ?
Cud. Answer, thou carle, and judge this riddle right, gold.
I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight:
What flow'r is that which royal honour craves,
Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis strown on graves †?
Clod. Forbear, contending louts, give o'er your
strains;
An oaken staff each merits for his pains.
But see the sun-beams bright to labour warn,
And gild the thatch of goodman Hodge's barn.
Your herds for want of water stand a-dry;
They're weary of your songs-and so am I.
We have given the rules usually laid down for pasto- Shenstone. ral writing, and exhibited some examples written on this plan; but we have to observe that this poem may take very different forms. It may appear either as a comedy or as a ballad. As a pastoral comedy, there is perhaps nothing which possesses equal merit with Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd, and we know not where to find in any language a rival to the Pastoral Ballad of Shenstone. That the excellence of this poem is great can hardly be questioned, since it compelled a critic, who was never lavish of his praise, and who on all occasions was ready to vilify the pastoral, to express himself in terms of high encomium. "In the first part (says he) are two passages, to which if any mind denies its sympathy, it has no acquaintance with love or nature:
I priz'd every hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleas'd ine before;
But now they are past, and I sigh,
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.
When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt in my heart!
Yet I thought-but it might not be so,
"Twas with pain that she saw me depart.
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