If any dull shepherd should foolishly ask,
So rich why the landscapes appear?
To give a right answer, how easy my task!
Because my sweet Phillida's here.

ALEXIS.

The stream that so muddy moves slowly along
Once roll'd in a beautiful tide;

It seem'd o'er the pebbles to murmur a song,
But Daphne sat then by my side.

See, see the loved maid, o'er the meadows she hies! Quite alter'd already the scene!

How limpid the stream is! how gay the blue skies! The hills and the hedges how green!

PHILLIS.

I SAID,- -on the banks by the stream
I've piped for the shepherds too long:
Oh grant me, ye Muses, a theme,

Where glory may brighten my song!
But Pan bade me stick to my strain,
Nor lessons too lofty rehearse;
Ambition befits not a swain,

And Phillis loves pastoral verse.
The rose, though a beautiful red,

Looks faded to Phillis's bloom;
And the breeze from the bean-flower bed
To her breath's but a feeble perfume:
The dewdrop so limpid and gay,

That loose on the violet lies,
Though brighten'd by Phoebus's ray,
Wants lustre compared to her eyes.

1 Shenstone.

A lily I pluck'd in full pride,

Its freshness with hers to compare ; And foolishly thought, till I tried, The floweret was equally fair. How, Corydon, could you mistake? Your fault be with sorrow confess'd; You said the white swans on the lake

For softness might rival her breast. While thus I went on in her praise, My Phillis pass'd sportive along : Ye poets, I covet no bays,

She smiled, a reward for my song! I find the god Pan 's in the right,

No fame's like the fair one's applause; And Cupid must crown with delight The shepherd that sings in his cause.

POMONA.

ON THE CIDER BILL BEING PASSED.

FROM orchards of ample extent,
Pomona's compell'd to depart;
And thus, as in anguish she went,
The goddess unburden'd her heart-
To flourish where Liberty reigns,
Was all my fond wishes required;
And here I agreed with the swains
To live till their freedom expired.
Of late you have number'd my trees,
And threaten'd to limit my store:
Alas-from such maxims as these,

I fear that your freedom's no more.

'My flight will be fatal to May:
For how can her gardens be fine?
The blossoms are doom'd to decay,
The blossoms, I mean, that were mine.
'Rich Autumn remembers me well:
My fruitage was fair to behold!
My pears-how I ripen'd their swell!
My pippins!—were pippins of gold!
'Let Ceres drudge on with her ploughs!
She droops as she furrows the soil;
A nectar I shake from my boughs,
A nectar that softens my toil.
When Bacchus began to repine,
With patience I bore his abuse;
He said that I plunder'd the vine,
He said that I pilfer'd his juice.
'I know the proud drunkard denies
That trees of my culture should grow:
But let not the traitor advise;

He comes from the climes of your foe. Alas! in your silence I read

The sentence I'm doom'd to deplore: "Tis plain the great Pan has decreed, My orchard shall flourish no more.' The goddess flew off in despair;

As all her sweet honours declined: And Plenty and Pleasure declare, They'll loiter no longer behind.

DELIA.

THE gentle swan with graceful pride
Her glossy plumage laves,
And, sailing down the silver tide,
Divides the whispering waves:
The silver tide, that wandering flows,
Sweet to the bird must be !

But not so sweet-blithe Cupid knows,
As Delia is to me.

A parent bird, in plaintive mood,
Ön yonder fruit-tree sung,

And still the pendent nest she view'd,
That held her callow young;
Dear to the mother's fluttering heart

The genial brood must be ;
But not so dear (the thousandth part!)

As Delia is to me.

The roses that my brow surround

Were natives of the dale;

Scarce pluck'd, and in a garland bound,
Before their sweets grew pale!
My vital bloom would thus be froze,

If luckless torn from thee;

For what the root is to the rose,

My Delia is to me.

Two doves I found, like new fallen snow,

So white the beauteous pair!

The birds to Delia I'll bestow,
They're like her bosom fair!

When, in their chaste connubial love,
My secret wish she'll see;

Such mutual bliss as turtles prove,

May Delia share with me.

DAMON AND PHILLIS.

Donec gratus eram, &c. HOR.

DAMON.

WHEN Phillis was faithful, and fond as she's fair, I twisted young roses in wreaths for my hair; But ah! the sad willow's a shade for my brows, For Phillis no longer remembers her vows! [flies, To the groves with young Colin the shepherdess While Damon disturbs the still plains with his sighs.

PHILLIS.

Bethink you, false Damon, before you upbraid, When Phoebe's fair lambkin had yesterday stray'd, Through the woodlands you wander'd, poor Phillis forgot!

And drove the gay rambler quite home to her cot; A swain so deceitful no damsel can prize; 'Tis Phoebe, not Phillis, lays claim to your sighs.

DAMON.

Like summer's full season young Phœbe is kind, Her manners are graceful, untainted her mind! The sweets of contentment her cottage adorn, She's fair as the rosebud, and fresh as the morn! She smiles like Pomona-These smiles I'd resign, If Phillis were faithful, and deign'd to be mine.

H