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THE FIFTH PASTORAL.

CUDDY.

IN rural strains we first our music try,
And bashful into woods and thickets fly,
Mistrusting then our skill; yet if through time
Our voice, improving, gain a pitch sublime,
Thy growing virtues, Sackville, shall engage
My riper verse, and more aspiring age.

The Sun, now mounted to the noon of day,
Began to shoot direct his burning ray; [shade
When, with the flocks, their feeders sought the
A venerable oak wide-spreading made:
What should they do to pass the loitering time?
As Fancy led, each form'd his tale in rhyme:
And some the joys, and some the pains, of love,
And some to set out strange adventures, strove;
The trade of wizards some, and Merlin's skill,
And whence, to charms, such empire o'er the will.
Then Cuddy last (who Cuddy can excel
In neat device?) his tale began to tell.

"When shepherds flourish'd in Eliza's reign,
There liv'd in high repute a jolly swain,
Young Colin Clout; who well could pipe and sing,
And by his notes invite the lagging Spring.
He, as his custom was, at leisure laid
In woodland bower, without a rival play'd,
Soliciting his pipe to warble clear,
Enchantment sweet as ever wont to hear
Belated wayfarers, from wake or fair
Detain'd by music, hovering on in air:
Drawn by the magic of th' enticing sound,
What troops of mute admirers flock'd around!
The steerlings left their food; and creatures, wild
By Nature form'd, insensibly grew mild.
He makes the gathering birds about him throng,
And loads the neighbouring branches with his song:
There, with the crowd, a nightingale of fame,
Jealous, and fond of praise, to listen came :
She turn'd her ear, and pause by pause, with pride,
Like echo to the shepherd's pipe replied.
The shepherd heard with wonder, and again,
To try her more, renew'd his various strain:
To all the various strain she plies her throat,
And adds peculiar grace to every note.
If Colin in complaining accent grieve,
Or brisker motion to his measure give,
If gentle sounds he modulate, or strong,
She, not a little vain, repeats the song;
But so repeats, that Colin half-despis'd
His pipe and skill, around the country priz'd:
⚫ And sweetest songster of the winged kind,
What thanks,' said he,' what praises, shall I find
To equal thy melodious voice? In thee
The rudeness of my rural fife I see;

From thee I learn no more to vaunt my skill :'
Aloft in air she sate, provoking still

The vanquish'd swain. Provok'd, at last, he strove

To show the little minstrel of the grove
His utmost powers, determin'd once to try
How Art, exerting, might with Nature vie;
For vie could none with either in their part,
With her in Nature, nor with him in Art.
He draws-in breath, his rising breath to fill:
Throughout the wood his pipe is heard to shrill.
From note to note, in haste, his fingers fly;
Still more and more the numbers multiply:

And now they trill, and now they fall and rise,
And swift and slow they change with sweet sur-

prise.

Attentive she doth scarce the sounds retain;
But to herself first cons the puzzling strain,
And tracing, heedful, note by note repays
The shepherd in his own harmonious lays,
Through every changing cadence runs at length,
And adds in sweetness what she wants in strength.
Then Colin threw his fife disgrac'd aside,
While she loud triumph sings, proclaiming wide
Her mighty conquest, and within her throat
Twirls many a wild unimitable note,
To foil her rival. What could Colin more?
A little harp of maple ware he bore:
The little harp was old, but newly strung,
Which, usual, he across his shoulders hung.
Now take, delightful bird, my last farewel,'
He said, and learn from hence thou dost excel
No trivial artist:' and anon he wound
The murmuring strings, and order'd every sound:
Then earnest to his instrument he bends,
And both hands pliant on the strings extends:
His touch the strings obey, and various move,
The lower answering still to those above:
His fingers, restless, traverse to and fro,
As in pursuit of harmony they go:
Now, lightly skimming, o'er the strings they pass,
Like winds which gently brush the plying grass,
While melting airs arise at their command:
And now, laborious, with a weighty hand
He sinks into the chords with solemn pace,
To give the swelling tones a bolder grace;
And now the left, and now by turns the right,
Each other chase, harmonious both in flight:
Then his whole fingers blend a swarm of sounds,
Till the sweet tumult through the harp rebounds.
Cease, Colin, cease, thy rival cease to vex;
The mingling notes, alas! her ear perplex:
She warbles, diffident, in hope and fear,
And hits imperfect accents here and there,
And fain would utter forth some double tone,

When soon she falters, and can utter none:
Again she tries, and yet again she fails;
For still the harp's united power prevails.
Then Colin play'd again, and playing sung:
She, with the fatal love of glory stung,
Hears all in pain: her heart begins to swell:
In piteous notes she sighs, in notes which tell
Her bitter anguish: he, still singing, plies
His limber joints: her sorrows higher rise.
How shall she bear a conqueror, who, before,
No equal through the grove in music bore!
She droops, she hangs her flagging wings, she moans,
And fetcheth from her breast melodious groans.
Opprest with grief at last too great to quell,
Down, breathless, on the guilty harp she fell.
Then Colin loud lamented o'er the dead,
And unavailing tears profusely shed,
And broke his wicked strings, and curs'd his skill;

And best to make atonement for the ill,
If, for such ill, atonement might be made,
He builds her tomb beneath a laurel shade,
Then adds a verse, and sets with flowers the ground,
And makes a fence of winding osiers round.

A verse and tomb is all I now can give;
And here thy name at least,' he said, 'shall live," "

Thus ended Cuddy with the setting Sun, And, by his tale, unenvied praises won.

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Tell me, shepherds, have ye seen My delight, my love, my queen?

THE HAPPY SWAIN.

HAVE ye seen the morning sky,
When the dawn prevails on high,
When, anon, some purply ray
Gives a sample of the day,

When, anon, the lark, on wing,
Strives to soar, and strains to sing?

Have ye seen th' ethereal blue
Gently shedding silvery dew,
Spangling o'er the silent green,
While the nightingale, unseen,
To the Moon and stars, full bright,
Lonesome chants the hymn of night?

Have ye seen the broider'd May
All her scented bloom display,
Breezes opening, every hour,
This, and that, expecting flower,
While the mingling birds prolong,
From each bush, the vernal song?

Have ye seen the damask-rose
Her unsullied blush disclose,
Or the lily's dewy bell,
In her glossy white, excell,
Or a garden varied o'er
With a thousand glories more?

By the beauties these display,
Morning, evening, night, or day,
By the pleasures these excite,
Endless sources of delight!
Judge, by them, the joys I find,
Since my Rosalind was kind,
Since she did herself resign
To my vows, for ever mine.

THE STRAY NYMPIL

Crase your music, gentle swains:
Saw ye Delia cross the plains?
Every thicket, every grove,
Have I rang'd, to find my love:
A kid, a lamb, my flock, I give,
Tell me only, doth she live?

White her skin as mountain-snow;
In her cheek the roses blow;
And her eye is brighter far
Than the beamy morning star.
When her ruddy lip ye view,
'Tis a berry moist with dew:
And her breath, oh, 't is a gale
Passing o'er a fragrant vale,
Passing, when a friendly shower
Freshens every herb and flower.
Wide her bosom opens, gay
As the primrose-dell in May,
Sweet as violet-borders growing
Over fountains ever-flowing.
Like the tendrils of the vine,
Do her auburn tresses twine,
Glossy ringlets all behind
Streaming buxom to the wind,
When along the lawn she bounds,
Light, as hind before the hounds:
And the youthful ring she fires,
Hopeless in their fond desires,
As her flitting feet advance,
Wanton in the winding dance.

EPISTLES.

TO A FRIEND,

WHO DESIRED ME TO WRITE

ON THE DEATH OF KING WILLIAM.

April 20, 1702.

TRUST me, dear George, could I in verse but show
What sorrow I, what sorrow all men, owe
To Nassau's fate; or could I hope to raise
A song proportion'd to the monarch's praise;
Could I his merits, or my grief, express,
And proper thoughts in proper language dress;
Unbidden should my pious numbers flow,
The tribute of a heart o'ercharg'd with woe:
But, rather than profane his sacred hearse
With languid praises, and unhallow'd verse,
My sighs I to myself in silence keep,
And inwardly, with secret anguish, weep.
Let Halifax's Muse (he knew him well)
His virtues to succeeding ages tell.
Let him, who sung the warrior on the Boyne,
(Provoking Dorset in the task to join)
And show'd the hero more than man before,
Let him th' illustrious mortal's fate deplore;

A mournful theme: while, on raw pinions, I
But flutter, and make weak attemps to fly:
Content, if, to divert my vacant time,
I can but like some love-sick fopling rhyme,
To some kind-hearted mistress make my court,
And, like a modish wit, in sonnet sport.

Let others, more ambitious, rack their brains
In polish'd sentiments, and labour'd strains:
To blooming Phyllis I a song compose,
And, for a rhyme, compare her to the rose;
Then, while my fancy works, I write down morn,
To paint the blush that does her cheek adorn;
And, when the whiteness of her skin I show,
With ecstasy bethink myself of snow.
Thus, without pains, I tinkle in the close,
And sweeten into verse insipid prose.

The country scraper, when he wakes his crowd,
And makes the tortur'd cat-gut squeak aloud,
Is often ravish'd, and in transport lost:
What more, my friend, can fam'd Corelli boast,
When Harmony herself from heaven descends,
And on the artist's moving bow attends?

Why then, in making verses, should I strain
For wit, and of Apollo beg a vein ?
Who study Horace and the Stagyrite?

Why cramp my dullness, and in torment write?
Let me transgress by nature, not by rule,

An artless idiot, not a studied fool,
A Withers, not a Rymer, since I aim
At nothing less, in writing, than a' name.

FROM HOLLAND, TO A FRIEND IN ENG-
LAND, IN THE YEAR 1703.

FROM Utrecht's silent walks, by winds, I send
Health and kind wishes to my absent friend.
The winter spent, I feel the poet's fire;
The Sun advances, and the fogs retire:
The genial Spring unbinds the frozen earth,
Dawns on the trees, and gives the primrose birth.
Loos'd from their friendly harbours, once again
Confederate fleets assemble on the main :
The voice of war the gallant soldier wakes;
And weeping Cloë parting kisses takes.
On new-plum'd wings the Roman eagle soars;
The Belgic lion in full fury roars.

Dispatch the leader from your happy coast,
The hope of Europe, and Britannia's boast:
O, Marlborough, come! fresh laurels for thee

rise:

All, that I will, I can; but then, I will
As reason bids; I meditate no ill;
And, pleas'd with things which in my level lie,
Leave it to madmen o'er the clouds to fly.

But this is all romance, a dream to you, Who fence and dance, and keep the court in view. White staffs and truncheons, seals and golden keys, And silver stars, your towering genius please: Such manly thoughts in every infant rise, Who daily for some tinsel trinket cries.

Go on, and prosper, sir: but first from me
Learn your own temper; for I know you free.
You can be honest; but you cannot bow,
And cringe, beneath a supercilious brow:
You cannot fawn; your stubborn soul recoils
At baseness; and your blood too highly boils.
From Nature some submissive tempers have:
Unkind to you, she form'd you not a slave.
A courtier must be supple, full of guile,
Must learn to praise, to flatter, to revile,
The good, the bad, an enemy, a friend,
To give false hopes, and on false hopes depend.
Go on, and prosper, sir: but learn to hide
Your upright spirit: 't will be construed pride.
The splendour of a court is all a cheat;
You must be servile, ere you can be great.
Besides, your ancient patrimony wasted,
Your youth run out, your schemes of grandeur
blasted,

You may perhaps retire in discontent,
And curse your patron, for no strange event:
The patron will his innocence protest,
And frown in earnest, though he smil'd in jest.
Man, only from himself, can suffer wrong;
His reason fails, as his desires grow strong:
Hence, wanting ballast, and too full of sail,
He lies expos'd to every rising gale.
From youth to age, for happiness he's bound:
He splits on rocks, or runs his bark aground;
Or, wide of land, a desert ocean views,
And, to the last, the flying port pursues:
Yet, to the last, the port he does not gain,
And dying finds, too late, he liv'd in vain.

TO THE EARL OF DORSET.
Copenhagen, March 9, 1709.
FROM frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow,
From streams which northern winds forbid to flow,
What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring,
Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing?
The hoary winter here conceals from sight

One conquest more; and Gallia will grow wise.
Old Lewis makes his last effort in arms,
And shows how, ev'n in age, ambition charms.
Meanwhile, my friend, the thickening shades I All pleasing objects which to verse invite.

haunt,

And smooth canals, and after rivulets pant:
The smooth canals, alas, too lifeless show!
Nor to the eye, nor to the ear, they flow.
Studious of ease, and fond of humble things,
Below the smiles, below the frowns of kings,
Thanks to my stars, I prize the sweets of life:
No sleepless nights I count, no days of strife.
Content to live, content to die, unknown,
Lord of myself, accountable to none;
I sleep, I wake, I drink; I sometimes love;
I read, I write; I settle, and I rove,
When, and where-e'er, I please: thus, every hour
Gives some new proof of my despotic power.

The hills and dales, and the delightful woods,
The flowery plains, and silver-streaming floods,
By snow disguis'd, in bright confusion lie,
And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye.

No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring,
No birds within the desert region sing.
The ships, unmov'd, the boisterous winds defy,
While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly.
The vast Leviathan wants room to play,
And spout his waters in the face of day.
The starving wolves along the main sea prowl,
And to the Moon in icy valleys howl.
O'er many a shining league the level main
Here spreads itself into a glassy plain:

There solid billows of enormous size, Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.

And yet but lately have I seen, ev'n here, The winter in a lovely dress appear. Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow, Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow, At evening a keen eastern breeze arose, And the descending rain unsullied froze. Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, 'The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view The face of Nature in a rich disguise, And brighten'd every object to my eyes: For every shrub, and every blade of grass, And every pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glass; In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show, While through the ice the crimson berries glow. The thick-sprung reeds, which watery marshes Seem'd polish'd lances in a hostile field. The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise, Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise. The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine, Glaz'd over, in the freezing ether shine. The frighted birds the rattling branches shun, Which wave and glitter in the distant sun. When if a sudden gust of wind arise, The brittle forest into atoms flies,

[yield,

The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends,
And in a spangled shower the prospect ends:
Or, if a southern gale the region warm,
And by degrees unbind the wintery charm,
The traveller a miry country sees,
And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees:
Like some deluded peasant, Merlin leads [meads:
Through fragrant bowers, and through delicious
While here enchanted gardens to him rise,
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,
His wandering feet the magic paths pursue,
And, while he thinks the fair illusion true,
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear,
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.

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PATRON of verse, O Halifax, attend,
The Muse's favourite, and the poet's friend!
Approaching joys my ravish'd thoughts inspire:
I feel the transport; and my soul's on fire!
Again Britannia rears her awful head:
Her fears, transplanted, to her foes are fled.
Again her standard she displays to view;
And all its faded lilies bloom anew.
Here beauteous Liberty salutes the sight,
Still pale, nor yet recover'd of her fright,
Whilst here Religion, smiling to the skies,
Her thanks expresses with up-lifted eyes.

But who advances next, with cheerful grace,
Joy in her eye, and plenty in her face?
A wheaten garland does her head adorn:
O Property! O goddess, English-born!
Where hast thou been? How did the wealthy mourn!
The bankrupt nation sigh'd for thy return,
Doubtful for whom her spreading funds were fill'd,
Her fleets were freighted, and her fields were till'd.

No longer now shall France and Spain, combin'd,
Strong in their golden Indies, awe mankind.
Brave Catalans, who for your freedom strive,
And in your shatter'd bulwarks yet survive,
For you alone, worthy a better fate,

O, may this happy change not come too late!
Great in your sufferings!-But, my Muse, forbear;
Nor damp the public gladness with a tear:
The hero has receiv'd their just complaint,
Grac'd with the name of our fam'd patron-saint:
Like him, with pleasure he forgoes his rest,
And longs, like him, to succour the distrest.
Firm to his friends, tenacious of his word,
As Justice calls, he draws or sheaths the sword
Matur'd by thought, his councils shall prevail :
Nor shall his promise to his people fail.

He comes, desire of nations! England's boast!
Already has he reach'd the Belgian coast.
Our great deliverer comes! and with him brings
A progeny of late-succeeding kings,
Fated to triumph o'er Britannia's foes
In distant years, and fix the world's repose.

The floating squadrons now approach the shore;
Lost in the sailors' shouts the cannons' roar :
And now, behold, the sovereign of the main,
fligh on the deck, amidst his shining train,
Surveys the subject flood. An eastern gale
Plays through the shrouds, and swells in every sail:
Th' obsequious waves his new dominion own,
And gently waft their monarch to his throne.
Now the glad Britons hail their king to land,
Hang on the rocks, and blacken all the strand:
But who the silent ecstasy can show,
The passions which in nobler bosoms glow?
Who can describe the godlike patriot's zeal?
Or who, my lord, your generous joys reveal?
Ordain'd, once more, our treasure to advance,
Retrieve our trade, and sink the pride of France;
Once more the long-neglected arts to raise,
And form each rising genius for the bays.

Accept the present of a grateful song;
This prelude may provoke the learned throng:
To Cam and Isis shall the joyful news,

By me convey'd, awaken every Muse.
E'en now the vocal tribe in verse conspires;

And I already hear their sounding lyres:

To them the mighty labour I resign,

Give up the theme, and quit the tuneful Nine.
So when the Spring first smiles among the trees,
And blossoms open to the vernal breeze,
The watchful nightingale, with early strains,
Summons the warblers of the woods and plains,
But drops her music, when the choir appear,
And listens to the concert of the year.

ΤΟ

THE HONOURABLE JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.,
SECRETARY AT WAR, AT HAMPTON-COURT. 1717.
THOUGH Britain's hardy troops demand your care,
And cheerful friends your hours of leisure share;
O, Craggs, for candour known! indulge awhile
My fond desire, and on my labour smile:
Nor count it always an abuse of time
To read a long epistle, though in rhyme.
To you
send my thoughts, too long confin'd,
And ease the burthen of a loyal mind;

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