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FIRST in these fields I try the silvan strains,
Nor blush to sport on Windsor's blissful plains:
Fair Thames! flow gently from thy sacred spring,
While on thy banks Sicilian Muses sing;
Let vernal airs through trembling osiers play,
And Albion's cliffs resound the rural lay.

You, that too wise for pride, too good for pow'r, Enjoy the glory to be great no more,

And, carrying with you all the world can boast,
To all the world illustriously are lost!
O let my Muse her slender reed inspire,
Till in your native shades you tune the lyre:
So when the nightingale to rest removes,
The thrush may chant to the forsaken groves;
But charm'd to silence, listens while she sings,
And all the aërial audience clap their wings.

Soon as the flocks shook off the nightly dews,
Two swains, whom love kept wakeful, and the Muse,
Pour'd o'er the whitening vale their fleecy care,
Fresh as the morn, and as the season fair;
The dawn now blushing on the mountain's side,
Thus Daphnis spoke, and Strephon thus replied:

Daph. Hear how the birds on every blooming With joyous music wake the dawning day! [spray Why sit we mute, when early linnets sing, When warbling Philomel salutes the spring? Why sit we sad, when Phosphor shines so clear, And lavish Nature paints the purple year? [strain, Strep. Sing then, and Damon shall attend the While yon slow oxen turn the furrow'd plain : Here the bright crocus and blue violet glow; Here western winds on breathing roses blow. I'll stake yon lamb, that near the fountain plays, And from the brink his dancing shade surveys.

Daph. And I, this bowl where wanton ivy twines, And swelling clusters bend the curling vines: Four figures rising from the work appear, The various seasons of the rolling year; And what is that, which binds the radiant sky, Where twelve fair signs in beauteous order lie? Dam. Then sing by turns, by turns the Muses


Now hawthorns blossom, now the daisies spring; Now leaves the trees, and flowers adorn the ground: Begin, the vales shall every note rebound.

Streph. Inspire me, Phœbus! in my Delia's praise, With Waller's strains, or Granville's moving lays: A milk-white bull shall at your altars stand, That threats a fight, and spurns the rising sand. Daph. O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize, And make my tongue victorious as her eyes : No lambs or sheep for victims I'll impart, Thy victim, Love, shall be the shepherd's heart. Streph. Me gentle Delia beckons from the plain, Then, hid in shades, eludes her eager swain; But feigns a laugh, to see me search around, And by that laugh the willing fair is found.

Daph. The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green; She runs, but hopes she does not run unseen ; While a kind glance at her pursuer flies,

How much at variance are her feet and eyes!
Streph. O'er golden sands let rich Pactolus flow,
And trees weep amber on the banks of Po ;
Bless'd Thames's shores the brightest beauties yield,
Feed here my lambs, I'll seek no distant field.
Daph. Celestial Venus haunts Idalia's groves;
Diana Cynthus, Ceres Hybla loves:

If Windsor-shades delight the matchless maid,
Cynthus and Hybla yield to Windsor-shade.

Streph. All nature mourns, the skies relent in show'rs,

Hush'd are the birds,and clos'd the drooping flow'rs;
If Delia smile the flowers begin to spring,
The skies to brighten, and the birds to sing.


Daph. All nature laughs, the groves are fresh and The sun's mild lustre warms the vital air; If Sylvia smiles, new glories gild the shore, And vanquish'd nature seems to charm no more. Streph. In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love, At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove, But Delia always; absent from her sight, Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight. Daph. Sylvia's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May, More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day: Ev'n spring displeases, when she shines not here; But bless'd with her, 'tis spring throughout the year. Streph. Say, Daphnis, say, in what glad soil appears

A wondrous tree, that sacred monarchs bears 1?

An allusion to the royal oak, in which Charles II. had been hid from his pursners after the battle of Worcester.

Tell me but this, and I'll disclaim the prize,
And give the conquest to thy Sylvia's eyes. [fields
Daph. Nay, tell me first, in what more happy
The thistle springs, to which the lily yields2:
And then a nobler prize I will resign;
For Sylvia, charming Sylvia, shall be thine.

Dam. Cease to contend; for, Daphnis, I decree The bowl to Strephon, and the lamb to thee. Bless'd swains, whose nymphs in every grace excel; Bless'd nymphs, whose swains those graces sing so well!

Now rise, and haste to yonder woodbine bow'rs,
A soft retreat from sudden vernal show'rs;
The turf with rural dainties shall be crown'd,
While opening blooms diffuse their sweets around:
For see! the gathering flocks to shelter tend,
And from the Pleiads fruitful showers descend.

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A SHEPHERD'S boy (he seeks no better name)
Led forth his flocks along the silver Thame,
Where dancing sun-beams on the waters play'd,
And verdant alders form'd a quivering shade.
Soft as he mourn'd, the streams forgot to flow,
The flocks around a dumb compassion show,

2 Alludes to the device of the Scots monarchs, the thistle, worn by Queen Anne; and to the arms of France, the flear de lys. The two riddles are in imitation of those in Virg. Ecl. 3d.

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The Naïads wept in every watry bow't,
And Jove consented in a silent show'r.

Accept, O Garth! the Muse's early lays,
That adds this wreath of ivy to thy bays;
Hear what from love nupractis'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 sing,
The woods shall answer, 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 sultry 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 sacred Isis glides, Or else where Cam his winding vales divides? As in the crystal spring I view my face, Fresh rising blushes paint the watry glass; But since those graces please thy eyes no more, I shun the fountains which I sought before. Once I was skill'd in every herb that grew, And every plant that drinks the morning dew; Ah, wretched shepherd, what avails thy art, To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart! Let other swains attend the rural care, Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces sheer: But nigh yon 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;

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