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UNFOLDING THE FLOCKS.
SHEPHERDS, rise, and shake off sleep-
See the blushing morn doth peep
Through your windows, while the sun
To the mountain-tops has run,
Gilding all the vales below

With his rising flames, which grow
Brighter with his climbing still--
Up! ye lazy swains! and fill
Bag and bottle for the field;
Clasp your cloaks fast, lest they yield
To the bitter north-east wind;
Call the maidens up, and find
Who lie longest, that she may
Be chidden for untimed delay.
Feed your faithful dogs, and pray
Heaven to keep you from decay;
So unfold, and then away.

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PASTORAL EMPLOYMENTS.

But since her stay was long: for fear the sun
Should find them idle, some of them begun
To leap and wrestle, others threw the bar,
Some from the company removed are
To meditate the songs they meant to play,
Or make a new round for next holiday;
Some, tales of love their love-sick fellows told;
Others were seeking stakes to pitch their fold.
This, all alone, was mending of his pipe;

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That, for his lass, sought fruits, most sweet, most ripe. Here (from the rest) a lovely shepherd's boy

Sits piping on a hill, as if his joy

Would still endure, or else that age's frost

Should never make him think what he had lost;

Yonder a shepherdess knits by the springs,
Her hands still keeping time to what she sings;

VOL. I.

2

U

Or seeming, by her song, those fairest hands
Were comforted in working. Near the sands
Of some sweet river sits a musing lad,

That moans the loss of what he some time had,
His love by death bereft: when fast by him
An aged swain takes place, as near the brim
Of's grave as of the river.

THOMAS

HEYWOOD.

DATE OF BIRTH UNCERTAIN; DIED, 1659.*

SHEPHERD'S SONG.

WE that have known no greater state
Than this we live in, praise our fate;
For courtly silks in cares are spent,
When country's russet breeds content.
The power of sceptres we admire,
But sheep-hooks for our use desire.
Simple and low is our condition,
For here with us is no ambition:
We with the sun our flocks unfold,
Whose rising makes their fleeces gold;
Our music from the birds we borrow,
They bidding us, we them, good morrow.
Our habits are but coarse and plain,
Yet they defend from wind and rain;
As warm too, in an equal eye,
As those be-stain'd in scarlet dye.
The shepherd, with his home-spun lass,
As many merry hours doth pass,
As courtiers with their costly girls,
Though richly deck'd in gold and pearls;
And, though but plain, to purpose woo,
Nay, often with less danger too.
Those that delight in dainties' store,

One stomach feed at once, no more;

*This song having been omitted in the first edition, and there being no other piece from this author, among the Selections, it is substituted for the "Lament of the Shepherds," by Milton.

RURAL OCCUPATION.

And, when with homely fare we feast,
With us it doth as well digest;
And many times we better speed,
For our wild fruits no surfeits breed.
If we sometimes the willow wear,
By subtle swains that dare forswear,
We wonder whence it comes, and fear
They've been at court and learnt it there.

JOHN GAY.

BORN, 1688; DIED, 1732.

RURAL OCCUPATION.

"Tis not that rural sports alone invite,
But all the grateful country breathes delight;
Here blooming health exerts her gentle reign,
And strings the sinews of the industrious swain.
Soon as the morning lark salutes the day,
Through dewy fields I take my frequent way,
Where I behold the farmer's early care
In the revolving labours of the year.

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When the fresh spring in all her state is crown'd, And high luxuriant grass o'erspreads the ground, The labourer with the bending scythe is seen, Shaving the surface of the waving green;

Of all her native pride disrobes the land,
And meads lays waste before his sweeping hand;
While with the mounting sun the meadow glows,
The fading herbage round he loosely throws:
But, if some sign portend a lasting show'r,
The experienc'd swain foresees the coming hour,
His sun-burnt hands the scatt'ring fork forsake,
And ruddy damsels ply the saving rake;
In rising hills the fragrant harvest grows,
And spreads along the field in equal rows.

Now when the height of heaven bright Phoebus gains,
And level rays cleave wide the thirsty plains;
When heifers seek the shade and cooling lake,

And in the middle pathway basks the snake;

Oh, lead me, guard me from the sultry hours,
Hide me, ye forests, in your closet bow'rs:
Where the tall oak his spreading arms entwines,
And with the beech a mutual shade combines ;
Where flows the murm'ring brook inviting dreams,
Where bordering hazel overhangs the streams,
Whose rolling current winding round and round,
With frequent falls makes all the wood resound;
Upon the mossy couch my limbs I cast,
And e'en at noon the sweets of evening taste.

JAMES THOMSON.

BORN, 1700; DIED, 1748.

SHEEP SHEARING.

IN one diffusive band,

They drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog
Compell'd, to where the mazy-running brook
Forms a deep pool; this bank abrupt and high,
And that fair-spreading in a pebbled shore,
Urged to the giddy brink, much is the toil,
The clamour much, of men, and boys, and dogs,
Ere the soft fearful people to the flood
Commit their woolly sides. And oft the swain,
On some impatient seizing, hurls them in:
Embolden'd, then, nor hesitating more,
Fast, fast, they plunge amid the flashing wave,
And, panting, labour to the farther shore.
Repeated this, till deep the well-washed fleece
Has drunk the flood, and from his lively haunt
The trout is banish'd by the sordid stream;

Heavy and dripping, to the breezy brow

Slow move the harmless race: where, as they spread
Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray,
Inly disturb'd and wondering what this wild
Outrageous tumult means, their loud complaints
The country fill; and, toss'd from rock to rock,
Incessant bleatings run around the hills.

THE SHEPHERD'S HOME.

At last, of snowy white, the gather'd flocks
Are in the wattled pen innumerous press'd,
Head above head: and, ranged in lusty rows,
The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding shears.
The housewife waits to roll her fleecy stores,
With all her gay-dress'd maids attending round.
One chief, in gracious dignity enthroned,

Shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen, and rays
Her smiles, sweet-beaming, on her shepherd-king;
While the glad circle round them yield their souls
To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall.
Meantime their joyous task goes on apace;
Some, mingling stir the melted tar, and some,
Deep on the new-shorn vagrant's heaving side
To stamp the master's cipher ready stand;
Others th' unwilling wether drag along;
And, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy
Holds by the twisted horns th' indignant ram.
Behold where bound, and of its robe bereft
By needy man, that all-depending lord,
How meek, how patient, the mild creature lies!
What softness in its melancholy face,
What dumb complaining innocence appears!
Fear not, ye gentle tribes, 'tis not the knife
Of horrid slaughter that is o'er you waved;
No, 'tis the tender swain's well-guided shears,
Who having now, to pay his annual care,
Borrow'd your fleece, to you a cumbrous load,
Will send you bounding to your hills again.

WILLIAM SHENSTONE.
BORN, 1714; Died, 1763.

THE SHEPHERD'S HOME.

My banks they are furnished with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;

My grottos are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white over with sheep.

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