§ 127. Song. The Sky-Lark. SHENSTONE.
Go, tuneful bird, that gladd'st the skies,
To Daphne's window speed thy way;
And there on quiv'ring pinions rise,
And there thy vocal art display.

And if she deign thy notes to hear,

And if she praise thy matin song, Tell her, the sounds that soothe her ear To Damon's native plains belong. Tell her, in livelier plumes array'd,

The bird from Indian groves may shine; But ask the lovely, partial maid,

Where are his notes compar'd with thine? Then bid her treat yon witless beau

And all his flaunting race with scorn;
And lend an ear to Damon's woe,
Who sings her praise, and sings forlorn.

'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain reclin'd, A hermit his nightly complaint thus began: Though mournful his numbers, his soul was resign'd;

He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. "Ah! why, thus abandon'd to darkness and woe, Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain?

For spring shall return, and a lover bestow; And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet, if pity inspire thee, O cease not thy lay! Mourn, sweetest companion! man calls thee

§ 129. A Pastoral Ballad. In Four Parts. SHENSTONE.

1. ABSENCE.

YE shepherds so cheerful and gay,
Whose flocks never carelessly roam;
Should Corydon's happen to stray,
O call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to muse and to sigh,

Nor talk of the change that ye find;
None, once, was so watchful as 1 :

—I have left my dear Phillis behind. Now I know what it is to have strove

With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire. Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn,

And the damps of each evening repel : Alas! I am faint and forloru:

-I have bade my dear Phillis farewell. Since Phillis vouchsaf'd me a look,

I

I never once dream'd of my vine:
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine!
priz'd every hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;
But now they are pass'd, and I sigh,
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.
But why do I languish in vain?

Why wander thus pensively here?
O, why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?
They tell me, my favorite maid,

The pride of that valley, is flown ;
Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
I could wander with pleasure alone.
When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,

What anguish I felt at my heart! Yet I thought, but it might not be so, She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew; 'Twas with pain when she saw me depart.

My path I could hardly discern ; So sweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return. The pilgrim that journeys all day

To visit some far-distant shrine,
If he bear but a relique away,

Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus, widely remov'd from the fair,
Soft hope is the relique I bear,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
And my solace wherever I go.

2. HOPE.

My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottoes are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains, all border'd with moss, Where the hare-bell and violet grow,

Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;
Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a sweet-brier twines it around.
Not my fields in the prime of the year
More charms than my cattle unfold:
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,

But it glitters with fishes of gold.

One would think she might like to retire To the bow'r I have labor'd to rear ; Not a shrub that I heard her admire,

But I hasted and planted it there. O how sudden the jessamine strove With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love,

To prune the wild branches away.

With her mien she enamours the brave;
With her wit she engages the free;
With her modesty pleases the grave;

She is every way pleasing to me.
O you that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays!
I could lay down my life for the swain
That will sing but a song in her praise.
When he sings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and listen the while;
Nay, on him let not Phillida frown;
-But I cannot allow her to smile.
For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favor with Phillis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,

Might she ruin the peace of my mind!

groves,

What strains of wild melody flow!
How the nightingales warble their loves
From thickets of roses that blow!
And when her bright form shall appear,
Each bird shall harmoniously join
In a concert so soft and so clear,

As she may not be fond to resign.
I have found out a gift for my fair,

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me that plunder forhear,

She will say 'twas a barbarous deed.
For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young;
And I lov'd her the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
I have heard her with sweetness unfold
How that pity was due to a dove,
That it ever attended the bold;
And she call'd it the sister of love.
But her words such a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever she say,
Methinks, I should love her the more.
Can a bosom so gentle remain

Unmov'd, when her Corydon sighs?
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
These plains and this valley despise?
Dear regions of silence and shade!

Soft scenes of contentment and ease! Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,

If aught in her absence could please. But where does my Phillida stray? And where are her grots and her bowers? Are the groves and the valleys as gay, And the shepherds as gentle, as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair,

And the face of the valleys as fine; The swains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mine.

3. SOLICITude.

Why will you my passion reprove,
Why term it a folly to grieve,
Ere I show you the charms of my love?
She is fairer than you can believe.

And his crook is bestudded around; And his pipe-O may Phillis beware

Of a magic there is in the sound! "Tis his with mock passion to glow;

'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, "How her face is as bright as the snow,

And her bosom, be sure, is as cold;
How the nightingales labor the strain,
With the notes of his charmer to vie;
How they vary their accents in vain,

Repine at her triumphs, and die."
To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays,

He throws it at Phillis's feet.
"O Phillis," he whispers, "more fair,

More sweet, than the jessamine's flow'r! What are pinks in a morn, to compare?

What is eglantine after a shower? "Then the lily no longer is white;

Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom; Then the violets die with despite,

And the woodbines give up their perfume." Thus glide the soft numbers along,

And he fancies no shepherd his peer;
Yet I never should envy the song,

Were not Phillis to lend it an ear.
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,
So Phillis the trophy despise;
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
So they shine not in Phillis's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue;
Yet may she beware of his art!
Or sure I must envy the song.

4. DISAPPOINTMENT.

Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my sheep:
They have nothing to do but to stray,
I have nothing to do but to weep.
Yet do not my folly reprove:

She was fair, and my passion begun; She smil'd, and I could not but love; She is faithless, and I am undone.

Perhaps I was void of all thought;
Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
That a nymph so complete would be sought
By a swain more engaging than me.
Ah! love ev'ry hope can inspire:
It banishes wisdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile!
She is faithless, and I am undone ;

Ye that witness the woes I endure,
Let reason instruct you to shun

What it cannot instruct you to cure. Beware how you loiter in vain

Amid nymphs of a higher degree: It is not for me to explain

How fair and how fickle they be. Alas! from the day that we met, What hope of an end to my woes, When I cannot endure to forget

The glance that undid my repose?
Yet time may diminish the pain :

The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree,
Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,
In time may have comfort for me.

The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,

The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows,

Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme.
High transports are shown to the sight,

But we are not to find them our own:
Fate never bestow'd such delight,
As I with my Phillis had known.

O ye woods, spread your branches apace;
To your deepest recesses I fly;

I would hide with the beasts of the chase,
I would vanish from every eye.
Yet my reed shall resound through the grove
With the same sad complaint it begun;
How she smil'd, and I could not but love;
Was faithless, and I am undone!

$130. Phabe. A Pastoral. BYROM.

My time, O ye muses! was happily spent, When Phoebe went with me wherever I went: Ten thousand soft pleasures I felt in my breast: Sure never foud shepherd like Colin was blest. But now she is gone, and has left me behind, What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! When things were as fine as could possibly be, I thought it was spring; but alas! it was she.

The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among, Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, It was pleasant to look at, 'twas music to hear! But now she is absent, I walk by its side, And, still as it murmurs, do nothing but chide : Must be you so cheerful, whilst I in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.

go

My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me;

through,

$131. A Pastoral Ballad. ROWE.
DESPAIRING beside a clear stream,
A shepherd forsaken was laid;
And, while a false nymph was his theme,
A willow supported his head.
The wind that blew over the plain,

To his sighs with a sigh did reply;
And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.
Alas! silly swain that I was!

(Thus sadly complaining, he cried ;) When first I beheld that fair face,

"Twere better by far I had died. She talk'd, and 1 bless'd her dear tongue; When she smil'd, it was pleasure too great; I listen'd, and cried, when she sung, Was nightingale ever so sweet!

How foolish was I to believe

She could doat on so lowly a clown,

Or that her fond heart would not grieve

To forsake the fine folk of the town! To think that a beauty so gay

So kind and so constant would prove.; Or go clad, like our maidens, in grey, Or live in a cottage on love!

What though I have skill to complain,

Though the muses my temples have crown'd; What though, when they hear my soft strain, The virgins sit weeping around; Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain, Thy pipe and thy laurel resign; Thy fair one inclines to a swain Whose music is sweeter than thine.

All you, my companions so dear,
Who sorrow to see me betray'd,
Whatever I suffer, forbear,

Forbear to accuse the false maid. Though through the wide world I should range, 'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly; "Twas hers to be false, and to change; "Tis mine to be constant, and die. If, while my hard fate I sustain,

In her breast any pity is found;

Let her come, with the nymphs of the plain,
And see me laid low in the ground:
The last humble boon that I crave

Is, to shade me with cypress and yew;
And, when she looks down on my grave,
Let her own that her shepherd was true.
Then to her new love let her go,

And deck her in golden array; Be finest at ev'ry fine show,

And frolic it all the long day: While Colin, forgotten and gone,

No more shall be talk'd of or seen, Unless when, beneath the pale moon, His ghost shall glide over the green.

§ 132. A Fairy Tale. PARNELL.
IN Britain's isle, and Arthur's days,
When midnight fairies daunc'd the maze,
Liv'd Edwin of the Green;
Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth,
Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth,
Though badly shap'd he been.

His mountain back mote well be said
To measure height against his head,
And lift itself above;
Yet, spite of all that Nature did
To make his uncouth form forbid,

This creature dar'd to love.

He felt the charms of Edith's eyes,
Nor wanted hope to gain the prize,

Could ladies look within;
But one Sir Topaz dress'd with art,
And, if a shape could win a heart,
He had a shape to win.
Edwin, if right I read my song,
With slighted passion paced along
All in the moony light;
"Twas near an old enchanted court,
Where sportive fairies made resort,
To revel out the night.

His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd, 'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost

That reach'd the neighbour town:
With weary steps he quits the shades,
Resolv'd, the darkling dome he treads,
And drops his limbs adown.
But scant he lays him on the floor,
When hollow winds remove the door,

A trembling rocks the ground:
And, well I ween to count aright,
At once an hundred tapers light
On all the walls around.
Now sounding tongues assail his ear,
Now sounding feet approachen near,

And now the sounds increase: And, from the corner where he lay, He sees a train, profusely gay,

Come prankling o'er the place. But (trust me, gentles) never yet Was dight a masquing half so neat, Or half so rich, before;

The country lent the sweet perfumes,
The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes,
The town its silken store.

Now, whilst he gaz'd, a gallant, drest
In flaunting robes above the rest,

With awful accent cried :

،، What mortal, of a wretched mind, Whose sighs infect the balmy wind, Has here presum'd to hide?"

At this the swain, whose vent'rous soul No fears of magic art control,

Advanc'd in open sight;

"Nor have I cause of dread," he said, "Who view, by no presumption led, Your revels of the night.

،، "Twas grief, for scorn of faithful love, Which made my steps unweeting rove Amid the nightly dew."

"'Tis well," the gallant cries again, "We fairies never injure men

Who dare to tell us true.

،، Exalt thy love-dejected heart ; Be mine the task, or ere we part,

To make thee grief resign;
Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce;
Whilst I with Mab, my partner, daunce,
Be little Mable thine."

He spoke, and, all a sudden, there
Light music floats in wanton air;

The Monarch leads the Queen :
The rest their fairie partners found:
And Mable trimly tript the ground

With Edwin of the Green.
The dauncing past, the board was laid,
And siker such a feast was made

As heart and lip desire :
Withouten hands the dishes fly,
The glasses with a wish come nigh,
And with a wish retire.

But now, to please the fairie king,
Full every deal they laugh and sing,
And antic feats devise;

Some wind and tumble like an ape,
And other some transmute their shape,

In Edwin's wond'ring eyes.

Till one, at last, that Robin hight,
Renown'd for pinching maids at night,

Has bent him up aloof;

And full against the beam he flung,
Where by the back the youth he hung,
To sprawl unneath the roof.
From thence, "Reverse my charm," he cries,
،، And let it fairly now suffice,

The gambol has been shown."
But Oberon answers, with a smile,
"Content thee, Edwin, for a while,
The vantage is thine own."➡