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TITY R U s.
Spenser was the first of our own countrymen, who acquired any considerable reputation by this method of writing. We hall insert his fixth eclogue, or that for June, which is als legorical, as will be seen by the
Tell me, what wants me here, to work delight?
So calm, so cool, as no where else I find ;
The bramble-bush, where birds of every kind
Here wander may thy flock early or late,
Thy lovely lays here mayst thou freely boast: But I, unhappy man! whom cruel fate,
And angry Gods parsue from coast to coast, Can no where find, to fhroud my luckless pate,
Leave me those hills, where harbroughnis to see, Nor holly-bush, nor brere, nor winding ditch ;
And to the dales resort, where shepherds rich, And fruitful flocks been every where to see :
Here no night-ravens lodge, more black than pitch, Nor elvilh ghosts, nor ghastly owls do flee.
But friendly fairies met with many graces, And light-foot nymphs can chace the ling'ring night,
With heydeguies, and trimly trodden traces ; Whilst fifters nine, which dwell on Parnafs' hight,
Do make them music, for their more delight; And Pan himfelf to kiss their chryftal faces,
Will pipe and daunce, when Phoebe Thineth bright : Such peerless pleasures have we in these places.
COLIN. And I, whilft youth, and course of careless years, Did let me walk withouten links of love,
In such delights did joy amongft my peers : But riper age such pleasures doth reprove,
My fancy eke from former follies move To ftrayed steps : for time in passing wears
(As garments doen, which waxen old above) And draweth new delights with hoary hairs.
Tho couth I sing of love and tune my pipe Unto my plantive pleas in verses made:
Tho would I seek for queen-apples unripe, To give my Rosalind, and in sommer shade
Dight gawdy girlonds, was my common trade, To crown her golden locks : but years more ripe,
And loss of her, whose love as life I wayde, Those weary wanton toys away did wipe.
I more delight, than lark in sommer days :
And taugḥt the birds, which in the lower spring
Frame to thy fong their cheerful cheriping
I saw Calliope with muses moe,
Their ivory lutes and tamburins forgo:
Ren after haftily thy silver sound,
They drew a back, as half with shame confound,
And holden scorn of homely shepherds quill :
Which him to much rebuke and danger drove,
But piping low, in shade of lowly grove,
Nought weigh I, who my song doth praise or blame,
With Mepherds fits not follow flying fame,
rimes been rough, and rudely dreft;
Enough is me to paint out my unrest,
The God of shepherds, Tityrus is dead,
He, whilft he lived was the sovereign head
I wote my
Well couth he wail his woes, and lightly flake The Aames, which love within his heart had bred,
And tell us merry tales, to keep us wake, The while our sheep about us safely fed.
Now dead he is, and lieth wrapt in lead, (O why should death on him such outrage show!
And all his palling skill with him is filed, The fame whereof doth daily greater grow...
But if on me some little drops would flow Of that the spring was in his learned hed,
I foon would learn these woods to wail my woe, And teach the trees their trickling tears to shed.
Then should my plaints, caus'd of discourtesee, As messengers of this my painful plight,
Fly to my love, wherever that the be. And pierce her heart with point of worthy wight;
As the deferves, that wrought so deadly spight. And thou, Menalcas, that by treachery
Didft underfong my lass to wax so light, Should'st well be known for such thy villiany.
But since I am not, as I wish I were, Ye gentle shepherds, which your flocks do feed,
Whether on hills or dales, or other where, Bear witness all of this so wicked deed :
And tell the lass, whose flower is woxe a weed, And faultless faith is turn’d to faithless seere,
That she the truest shepherd's heart made bleed, That lives on earth, and loved her most dear.
O! careful Colin, I lament thy case, Thy tears would make the hardest Aint to flow !
Ah ! faithless Rosalind, and void of grace, That are the root of all this rueful woe!
But now is time, I guess, homeward to go: Then rise, ye blessed Aocks, and home apace,
Left night with stealing steps do you foreslo, And wet your tender lambs, that by you trace.
By the following eclogue the reader will perceive that Mr. Philips has, in imitation of Spencer, preserved in his Pastorals many antiquated words, which, tho' they are discarded from polite conversation, may naturally be fup. posed till to have place among the shepherds, and other rufticks in the country. We have made choice of his fe. cond eclogue, because it is brought home to his own business, and contains a complaint against those who had spoken ill of him and his writings.
Mr. PHILIP s's second Pastoral,
THENOT, COLIN E T.