TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN CUNNINGHAM.1

Sing his praises, that doth keep

Our flocks from harm,

Pan, the father of our sheep:

And arm in arm

Tread we softly in a round,

While the hollow neighb'ring ground
Fills the music with her sound.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

YE mournful meanders and groves,
Delight of the muse and her song;
Ye grottos and dripping alcoves,

No strangers to Corydon's tongue ;

Let each Sylvan and Dryad declare
His themes and his music how dear,
Their plaints and their dirges prepare,
Attendant on Corydon's bier.

The Echo that join'd in the lay,
So amorous, sprightly, and free,
Shall send forth the sounds of dismay,
And sigh with sad pity for thee.

Wild wander his flocks with the breeze;
His reed can no longer control;

His numbers no longer can please,
Or send kind relief to the soul.

But long may they wander and bleat,
To hills tell the tale of their woe;

1 Born in Dublin 1729. Died in Newcastle 18th September, 1773. His pastorals and a few of his songs, especially 'May-eve or Kate of Aberdeen,' are pleasing and chaste. His Poems have passed through a great variety of editions. The best is by Thomas Park, from the Chiswick press.

The woodlands the tale shall repeat,

And the waters shall mournfully flow.

For these were the naunts of his love,
The sacred retreats of his ease,
Where favourite Fancy would rove,
As wanton, as light as the breeze

Her zone will discolour'd appear,

With fanciful ringlets unbound, A face pale and languid she'll wear,

A heart fraught with sorrow profound.

The reed of each shepherd will mourn,
The shades of Parnassus decay;
The Muses will dry their sad urn,
Since 'reft of young Corydon's lay.

To him every passion was known

That throbb'd in the breast with desire;

Each gentle affection was shown

In the soft sighing songs of his lyre.

Like the carolling thrush on the spray
In music soft warbling and wild,

To love was devoted each lay,

In accents pathetic and mild.

Let Beauty and Virtue revere,

And the songs of the shepherd approve,

Who felt, who lamented the snare,
When repining at pitiless love.

The summer but languidly gleams,
Pomona no comfort can bring,