Ah! tell me why must every dart
Be aim'd at my unhappy heart?
I never murmur'd or repin'd,
But patiently myself refign'd

To all the torments, which through thee
Have fell, alas! on wretched me:
But oh! I can no more fuftain
This long-continued ftate of pain,
Though 'tis but fruitlefs to complain.
My heart, first foften'd by thy power,
Ne'er kept its liberty an hour:
So fond and eafy was it grown,

Each nymph might call the fool her own:
So much to its own intereft blind,
So ftrangely charm'd to womankind,
That it no more belong'd to me,
Than veftal-virgins hearts to thee.
I often courted it to ftay;

But, deaf to all, 'twould fly away.
In vain to ftop it I essay'd,
Though often, often, I difplay'd
The turns and doubles women made.
Nay more, when it has home return'd,
By fome proud maid ill us'd and scorn'd,

I ftill the renegade careft,
And gave it harbour in my breast.
O! then, with indignation fir'd
At what before it so admir'd;
With fhame and sorrow overcaft,
And fad repentance for the paft,
A thousand facred oaths it fwore
Never to wander from me more;
After chimæras ne'er to fove,
Or run the wild-goofe chace of love.
Thus it refolv'd

Till fome new face again betray'd
The refolution it had made:
Then how 'twould flutter up and down,
Eager, impatient, to be gone:

And, though so often it had fail'd,
Though vainless every heart affail'd,
Yet, lur'd by hope of new delight,
It took again its fatal flight.
'Tis thus, malicious deity,
That thou hast banter'd wretched me;
Thus made me vainly lofe my time,
Thus fool away my youthful prime;
And yet, for all the hours I've loft,
And fighs, and tears, thy bondage coft,
Ne'er did thy flave thy favours blefs,
Or crown his paffion with fucceís.
Well-fince 'tis doom'd that I must find
No love for love from womankind;
Since I no pleasure muft obtain,
Let me at least avoid the pain:
So weary of the chace I'm grown,
That with content I'd fit me down,
Enjoy my book, my friend, my cell,
And bid all womankind farewel.
Nay, afk for all I felt before,
Only to be difturb'd no more
Yet thou (to my complainings deaf)
Wilt give my torments no relief;

But now, ev'n now, thou mak'ft me die,
And love I know not whom, nor why,

In every part I feel the fire,

And burn with fanciful defire;

From whence can love its magic draw?
I doat on her, I never faw:
And who, but lovers, can exprefs
This ftrange, mysterious tenderness ?
And yet methinks 'tis happier fo,
Than whom it is I love to know:
Now my unbounded notions rove,
And frame ideas to my love.
I fancy I fhould fomething find,
Diviner both in face and mind,
Than ever nature did bestow
On any creature here below.
I fancy thus Corinna walks,

That thus fhe fings, fhe looks, fhe talks.
Sometimes I figh, and fancy then,
That, did Corinna know my pain,

O Could the my trickling tears but fee,
She would be kind and pity me.
Thus thinking I've no cause to grieve,
I pleasingly myself deceive;
And fure am happier far than he
Who knows the very truth can be.
Then, gentle Cupid, let me ne'er
See my imaginary fair:

Left the fhould be more heavenly bright
Then can be reach'd by fancy's height;
Left (when I on her beauty gaze,
Confounded, loft in an amaze ;
My trombling lips and eyes fhould tell,
"Tis her I dare to love fo well);
She, with an angry, fcornful eye,
Or fome unkind, fevere reply,
My hopes of blifs fhould overcast,
And my prefuming paffion blaft.
If but in this thou kind wilt prove,
And let me not fee her I love,
Thy altars proftrate I'll adore,
And call thee tyrant-god no more.

PASTORAL

S

ECLOGUE I.

DAPHN E.

ICILIAN Mufe, my humble voice inspire
To fing of Daphne's charms and Damon's fire.
Long had the faithful,fwain fuppreft his grief,
And, fince he durft not hope, ne'er afk'd relief.
But at th' arrival of the fatal day

That took the nymph and all his joys away;
With dying looks he gaz'd upon the fair,

And what his tongue could not, his eyes declare:
Till with deep fighs, as if his heart-strings broke,
Preffing her hand, these tender things he spoke :

DAMON.

Ah, lovely nymph! behold your lover burn, And view that paffion which you 'll not return. As no nymph's charms did ever equal thine, So no fwain's love did ever equal mine: How happy, fair, how happy should I be, Might I but facrifice myself for thee! Could I but please thee with my dying verfe, And make thee fhed one tear upon my hearse!

DAPHNE.

Too free an offer of that love you make, Which, now, alas, I have no power to take: Your wounds I cannot, though I would, relieve; Phaon has all the love that I can give. Had you among the reft at first affail'd

My heart, when free, you had, perhaps, prevail'd. Now if you blame, ob, blame not me, but fate, That never brought you 'till 'twas grown too late.

DAMON.

Had the fates brought me then, too charming fair, I could not hope, and now I must despair, Rul'd by your friends, you quit the lover's flame, For flocks, for paftures, for an empty name. Yet though the bleft poffeffion fate denies, Oh let me gaze for ever on those eyes: So juft, so true, fo innocent 's my flame, That Phaon, did he fee it, could not blame.

DAPHNE.

Such generous ends I know you ftill purfue, What I can do, be fure I will for you. If on efteen or pity you can live, Or hopes of more, if I had more to give, Thofe you may have, but cannot have my heart: And fince we now perhaps for ever part, Such noble thoughts through all your life exprefs, Nay make the value more, the pity less.

DAMON.

Can you then go? can you for ever part, (Ye Gods! what thivering pains furround my heart!) And have one thought to make your pity less? Ah Daphne, could I half my pangs exprefs, You could not think, though hard as rocks you were, Your pity ever could too great appear. I ne'er fhall be one moment free from pain, Till I behold thofe charming eyes again. When gay diverfions do your thoughts employ, I would not come to interrupt the joy j

Think then, oh think on whom you leave behind!
Think with what heart I fhall behold the green,
Where I so oft thofe charming eyes have feen!
Think with what grief I walk the groves alone,
When you, the glory of them all, are gone!
Yet, oh the little time you have to stay,
Let me ftill fpeak, and gaze my foul away!
But fee my paffion that small aid denies;
Grief tops my tongue, and tears o'erflow my eyesz

T

HYRSIS, the gayeft once of all the swains, Who fed their flocks upon th' Arcadian plains; While love's mad paffion quite devour'd his heart, And the coy nymph that caus'd, neglects his smart; Strives in low numbers, such as shepherds use, If not to move her breaft, his own amuse. You, Chloris, who with fcorn refufe to fee The mighty wounds that you have made on me; Yet cannot fure with equal pride disdain, To hear an humble hind of his complain.

Now while the flocks and herds to fhades retire,
While the fierce fun fets all the world on fire;
Through burning fields, through rugged brakes I rove,
And to the hills and woods declare my love.
How fmall's the heat! how eafy is the pain
I feel without, to that I feel within!

Yet fcornful Galatea will not hear,
But from my fongs and pipe ftill turns her ear:
Not fo the fage Corifca, nor the fair
Climena, nor rich Ægon's only care;

From them my fongs a juft compaffion drew;
And they shall have them, fince contemn'd by you.

Why name I them, when ev'n chaste Cynthia Rays,
And Pan himself, to listen to my lays?
Pan, whose sweet pipe has been admir'd fo long,
Has not difdain'd fometimes to hear my fong:
Yet Galatea's fcorns whate'er I fay,
And Galatea's wifer fure than they.

Relentless nymph! can nothing move your mind? Muft you be deaf, because you are unkind? Though you dislike the fubject of my lays, Yet fure the fweetnefs of my voice might pleafe. It is not thus that you dull Mopfus ufe; His fongs divert you, though you mine refufe: Yet I could tell you, fair-one, if I would, (And fince you treat me thus, methinks I should) What the wife Lycon faid, when in yon' plain He faw him court in hope, and me in vain; Forbear, fond youth, to chace a heedlefs fair, Nor think with well-tun'd verfe to please her ear; Seek out fome other nymph, nor e'er repine That one who likes his fongs, fhould fly from thine.

Ah, Lycon! ah! your rage falfe dangers forms; 'Tis not his fongs, but 'tis his fortune charms: Yet, fcornful maid, in time you ll find thofe toys Can yield no real, no fubftantial joys; In vain his wealth, his titles gain esteem, If for all that you are asham'd of him,

Ah,

Ab, Galatea, would't thou turn thofe eyes,
Would't thou but once vouchsafe to hear my cries;
In fach foft rotes I would my pains impart,
As could not fail to move thy rocky heart;
With fuch fweet fongs I would thy fame make known,
As Pan himself might not difdain to own.

Oh could't thou, fair-one, but contented be
To tend the sheep, and chace the hares, with me;
To have thy praifes echo'd through the groves,
And pafs thy days with one who truly loves:
Nor let thofe gaudy toys thy heart furprize,
Which the fools envy, and the fage defpife.

But Galatea fcorns my humble flame,
And neither afks my fortune, nor my name.
Of the best cheefe my well-ftor'd dairy 's full,
And my foft fheap produce the finest wool;
The richest wines of Greece my vineyards yield,
And fmiling crops of grain adorn my field.

Ah, foolish youth! in vain thy boat'st thy fto.e,
Have what thou wilt, if Mopfus ftill has more.
See whilf thou fing'ft, behold her haughty pride,
With what difdain the turns her head afide!
Oh, why would Nature, to our ruin, place
A tiger's heart, with fuch an angel's face?

While you defpife my humble fongs, my herd,
My fhaggy eyebrows, and my rugged beard;
While through the plains difuainfully you move,
And think no thepherd can deferve your love;
Mopfus alone can the nice virgin win,
With charming perfon, and with graceful mien
Begin, my Mufe, begin th' Arcadian ftrains.

When firft I faw you on those fatal plains,
I reach'd you fruit; your mother too was there;
Scarce had you feen the thirteenth fpring appear:
Yet beauty's buds were opening in your face;
Igaz'd, and bluthes did your charms increafe.
'Tis love, thought I, that's rifing in her breaft;
Alas, your paffion, by my own, I gueft;
Then upon truft I fed the raging pains.
Begin, my Mufe, begin th' Arcadian strains.
Oh, love I know thee now; thou ow'ft thy birth
To rocks; fome craggy mountain brought thee furth
Nor is it human blood that fills thy veins,
Begin, my Mufe, begin th' Arcadian ftrains.

Relentless love to bold Medea how'd,
To ftain her guilty hands in children's blood.
Was the more cruel, or more wicked he?
He was a wicked counsellor, a cruel mother fhe.

Nor hope to gain a heart already gone.

While rocks and caves thy tuneful notes refound,
See how thy corn lies wither'd on the ground!
The hungry wolves devour thy fatten'd lambs;
And bleating for the young makes lean the dams.
Take, fhepherd, take thy hook, thy flocks pursue,
And when one nymph proves cruel, find a new.

and

the day,

While I in fighs and tears confume away; Deceiv'd with flattering hopes of Nyfa's love: And to the gods my vain petitions move: Though they've done nothing to prevent my death, I'll yet invoke them with my dying breath. Begin, my Mufe, begin th' Arcadian strains.

Arcadia's famous for its fpacious plains,
Its whifling pine-trees, and its fhady groves,
And often hears the fwains lament their loves.
Great Pan upon its mountains feeds his goats,
Who firk taught reeds to warble rural notes.
Begin, my Mufe, begin th' Arcadian ftrains.

Mopfus weds Nifa! oh, well-fuited pair!
When he fucceeds, what lover can despair?
After this match, let mares and griffins breed;
And hounds with hares in friendly confort feed.
Go, Mopfus, go; provide the bridal cake,
And to thy bed the blooming virgin take:
In her foft arms thou fhalt fecurely reft,
Behold, the evening comes to make thee bleft!
Begin, my Mufe, begin th' Arcadian strains.

Oh, Nifa, happy in a lovely choice!
While you with fcorn neglect my pipe and voice;

Now let the fcreech-owls vie with warbling (wans ;
Upon hard oaks let blufhing peaches grow,
And from the brambles liquid amber flow.
The harmless wolves the ravenous sheep shall shun;
And valiant deer at fearful greyhounds run:
Let the fea rife, and overflow the plains.
Begin, my Mufe, begin th' Arcadian strains.

Adieu, ye flocks; no more fhall I purfue!
Adieu, ye proves; a long, a long adieu !
And you, coy nymph, who all my vows difdain,
Take this laft prefent from a dying fwain.
Since you diflike whate'er in life I said,

You may be pleas'd, perhaps, to hear I'm dead:
This leap fhall put an end to all my pains.

Now ceafe, my Mufe, now ceafe th' Arcadian frains.

Thus Damon fung while on the cliff he stood,
Then headlong plung'd into the raging flood.
All with united grief the lofs bemoan,
Except the authorefs of his fate alone,
Who hears it with an unrelenting breast.
Ah, cruel nymph! forbear your fcorns at least.
How much foe'er you may the love defpife,
"I is barbarous to infult on one that dies.

What living nymph is bleft with equal grace?
All may difpute, but who can fill thy place?
What lover in his mistress hopes to find
A form fo lovely with fo bright a mind?
Doris may boaft a face divinely fair,

But wants thy fhape, thy motions, and thy air.
Lucinda has thy shape, but not those eyes,
That, while they did th' admiring world furprife,
Difcios'd the fecret luftre of the mind,
And feem'd each lover's inmost thoughts to find.
Others, whofe beauty yielding fwains confefs,
By indifcretion make their conqueft lefs.
And want thy conduct and obliging wit

To fix thofe flaves who to their chains fubmit.
As fome rich tyrant hoards an useless store,
That would, well plac'd, inrich a thousand more:
So didft thou keep a crowd of charms retir'd
Would make a thousand other nymphs admir'd.
Gay, modeft, artlefs, beautiful and young,
Siow to refolve; in resolution strong;
To all obliging, yet referv'd to all
None could himself the favour'd lover call:
That which alone could make his hopes endure,
Was, that he faw no other fwain fecure.
Whither, ah! whither are those graces fied?
Down to the dark, the melancholy shade?
Now, thepherds, now lament! and now deplore!
Delia is dead, and beauty is no more!

For thee each tuneful fwain prepar'd his lays,
His fame exalting while he fung thy praife.
Thyrfis, in gay and eafy measures, trove
To charm thy ears, and tune thy foul to love:
Menalcas, in his numbers more fublime,
Extoll'd thy virtues in immortal rhyme.
Glycon, whofe fatire kept the world in awe,
Soren'd bis ftrain when first thy charms he saw,
Confefed the goddess who new-form'd his mind,
Proclim'd thy beauties, and forgot mankind.
Ceate, fhepherd, ceafe; the charms you fung are fled,
The glory of our blafted ifle is dead.

Now join your griefs with mine! and now deplore
Delia, the pride of beauty, now no more!

Behold where now the lies depriv'd of breath! Charming, tho' pale, and beautiful in death! A troop of weeping Virgins by her fide; With all the pomp of woe and forrow's pride! O, carly loft! O, fitter to be led In chearful fplendor to the bridal-bed, Than thus conducted to the untimely tomb, A fpotlefs virgin in her beauty's bloom! Whatever hopes fuperior merit gave; Let me, at leaft, embrace thee in the grave; On thy cold lips imprint a dying kifs: O that thy coynefs could refufe me this! Such melting tears upon thy limbs I'll pour, Shall thaw their numbnefs, and thy warmth restore, Clafpt to thy glowing breaft, thou may'st revive; I'll breathe fuch tender fighs fhall make thee live, Or, if feverer fates that aid deny, If thou canst not revive, yet I may die. In one cold grave together may be laid The trueft lover and the loveliest maid. Then fhall I ceafe to grieve, and not before; Then fhall I ceafe fair Delia to deplore.

But fee, thofe dreadful objects disappear!
The fun fhines out, and all the heavens are clear:
The warring winds are hufh'd, the fea ferene;
And nature, foften'd, shifts her angry fcene.
What means this fudden change? methinks I hear
Melodious mufic from the heavenly sphere!
Liften, ye fhepherds, and devour the found!
Liften: the faint, the lovely faint, is crown'd!
While we, mistaken in our joy and grief,
Bewail her fate, who wants not our relief:
From the pleas'd orbs the views us here below,
And with kind pity wonders at our woe.

Ah, charming faint! fince thou art blefs'd abort,
Indulge thy lovers, and forgive their love.
Forgive their tears, who prefs'd with grief and care,
Feel not thy joys, but feel their own despair.

THE GOLDEN AGE RESTORED,

1703.

AN IMITATION OF THE FOURTH ECLOGUE OF VIRGIL:

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN TAKEN FROM A SIBYLLINE PROPHECY. ·Paulò majora canamus.

ICILIAN Mufe, begin a loftier flight;

Not all in trees and lowly shrubs delight:
Or if your rural fhades you still pursue,
Make your shades fit for able statesmens view.

The time is come, by ancient Bards foretold,
Reftoring the Saturnian age of gold;
The vile, degenerate, whiggish offspring ends,
A high-church progeny from heaven defcends.

O learned Oxford, spare no facred pains To nurse the glorious breed, now thy own Bromley reigns.

And thou, great Scarfdale, darling of this land,
Doft foremost in that fam'd commission ftand;
Whofe deep remarks the liftening world admires,
By whofe aufpicious care old Ranelagh expires.
Your mighty genius no ftriét rules can bind;
You punish men for crimes, which you want time to find.
Senates fhall now like holy fynods be,

And holy fynods fenate-like agree.
Monmouth and Mostyn here inftru&t the youth,
There Bincks and Kimberley maintain the facred truth,
Powis and Hamlin here, with equal claim,
Through wide Weft-Saxon realms extend their fame;
There Birch and Hooper right divine convey,
Nor treat their bishops in a human way.

Now all our factions, all our fears shall cease,
And Tories rule the promis'd land in peace.
Malice shall die, and noxious poisons fail,
Harley fhall ceafe to trick, and Seymour cease to raila
The lambs fhall with the lions walk unhurt,
And Halifax and Howe meet civilly at court.

Viceroy