Hear what from Love unpractis'd hearts endure,
From Love, the fole disease thou canst not cure!
Ye fhady beeches, and ye cooling streams,
Defence from Phoebus, not from Cupid's beams,
To you I mourn, nor to the deaf I sing,
The woods fhall anfwer, and their echo ring.
Ev'n 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 enflam'd by thee.
The fultry Sirius burns the thirsty plains,
While in thy heart eternal winter reigns.
Where stray ye Mufes, in what lawn or grove,
While your Alexis pines in hopeless love.
In those fair fields where facred Ifs glides,
Or elfe where Cam his winding vales divides?
As in the crystal spring I view my face,
Fresh rifing blushes paint the wat❜ry glass;
But since those graces please thy fight no more,
I fhun the fountains which I fought before.
Once I was skill'd in ev'ry herb that grew,
And ev'ry plant that drinks the morning dew;

Ah

Ah wretched fhepherd, what avails thy art,
To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart!
Let other fwains attend the rural care, ⠀

Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces fhare;
But nigh that mountain let me tune my lays,
Embrace my Love, and bind my brows with bays.
That flute is mine which Colin's tuneful breath
Inspir'd when living, and bequeath'd in death;
He faid; Alexis, take this pipe, the fame
That taught the groves my Rofalinda's name----
But now the reeds fhall hang on yonder Tree,
For ever filent, since defpis'd by thee.
Oh! were I made by fome transforming pow'r
The captive bird that fings within thy bow'r!
Then might my voice thy liftning ears employ,
And I thofe kiffes he receives, enjoy.

And yet my numbers please the rural throng,
Rough Satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the song:
The Nymphs forfaking ev'ry cave and fpring,
Their early fruit, and milk-white Turtles bring;
Each am'rous nymph prefers her gifts in vain,
On you their gifts are all beftow'd again!

For you the fwains the faireft flow'rs defign,
And in one garland all their beauties join;
Accept the wreath which you deserve alone,
In whom all beauties are compriz'd in one.

See what delights in fylvan scenes appear!
Defcending Gods have found Elyzium here.
In woods bright Venus with Adonis ftray'd,
And chafte Diana haunts the foreft-fhade.
Come, lovely nymph, and bless the filent hours,
When fwains from theering feek their nightly bow'rs;
When weary reapers quit the fultry field,

And crown'd with corn, their thanks to Ceres yield.
This harmless grove no lurking viper hides,
But in my breaft the ferpent love abides.
Here bees from bloffams fip the rofy dew,
But your Alexis knows no fweet but you.
Some God conduct you to thefe blissful feats,
The moffy fountains, and the green retreats!
Where-e'er you walk, cool gales fhall fan the glade,
Trees, where you fit, fhall crowd into a shade,
Where-e'er you tread, the blushing flow'rs shall rise,
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.

Oh how I long with you to pafs my days,
Invoke the Mufes, and refound your praise;
Your praise the birds fhall chant in ev'ry grove,
And winds fhall waft it to the pow'rs above.
But would you fing, and rival Orpheus' strain,
The wond'ring forests foon should dance again,
The moving mountains hear the pow'rful call,
And headlong streams hang lift'ning in their fall!
But fee, the fhepherds fhun the noon-day heat,
The lowing herds to murm'ring brooks retreat,
To clofer fhades the panting flocks remove,
Ye Gods! and is there no relief for love?
But foon the Sun with milder rays defcends
To the cool ocean, where his journey ends;
On me love's fiercer flames for ever prey,
By night he scorches, as he burns by day.

AUTUMN.

AUTUM N

THE

THIRD PASTORAL.

B

To Mr. WTCHERLET

Eneath the shade a fpreading Beech displays,

Hylas and Ægon fung their rural lays,

To whofe complaints the lift'ning forests bend,
While one his Miftrefs mourns and one his Friend:
Ye Mantuan nymphs, your facred fuccour bring;
Hylas and Ægon's rural lays I fing.

Thou, whom the Nine with Plautus' wit infpire,
The art of Terence, and Menander's fire,
Whofe fenfe instructs us, and whose humour charms,
Whofe judgment fways us, and whofe rapture warms!
Attend

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