No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse, Their country's beauty, or their nymph's rehearse; Yet still for these we frame the tender strain, Still in our lays fond Corydons complain, And shepherds' boys their amorous pains reveal, The only pains, alas! they never feel.
On Mincio's banks, in Cæsar's bounteous reign, If Tityrus found the golden age again, Must sleepy bards the flattering dream prolong, Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song? From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray, Where Virgil, not where fancy, leads the way?
No; cast by fortune on a frowning coast, Which neither groves nor happy valleys boast; Where other cares than those the Muse relates, And other shepherds dwell with other mates; By such examples taught, I paint the cot, As Truth will paint it and as bards will not: Nor you, ye poor, of lettered scorn complain, To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain; O'ercome by labour, and bowed down by time, Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme? Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread, By winding myrtles round your ruin'd shed? Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'er-
From thence a length of burning sand appears, Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears; Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, Reign o'er the land and rob the blighted rye: There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar, And to the ragged infant threaten war; There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil; There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil; Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf, The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf; O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade; With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, And a sad splendour vainly shines around.
Beneath an ancient bridge the straitened flood Rolls through its sloping banks of slimy mud; Near it a sunken boat resists the tide, That frets and hurries to th' opposing side; The rushes sharp, that on the borders grow, Bend their brown flow'rets to the stream below, Impure in all its course, in all its progress slow: Here a grave Flora scarcely deigns to bloom, Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume: The few dull flowers that o'er the place are spread Partake the nature of their fenny bed; Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom, Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume: Here the dwarf sallows creep, the septfoil harsh, And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh; Low on the ear the distant billows sound, And just in view appears their stony bound; No hedge nor tree conceals the glowing run; Birds, save a wat'ry tribe, the district shun, Nor chirp among the reeds where bitter waters run. * *
Again, the country was enclosed, a wide And sandy road has banks on either side; Where, lo! a hollow on the left appeared, And there a gipsy tribe their tent had reared; 'Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun, And they had now their early meal begun, When two brown boys just left their grassy
The early traveller with their prayers to greet: While yet Orlando held his pence in hand, He saw their sister on her duty stand; Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly, Prepared the force of early powers to try; Sudden a look of languor he descries, And well-feigned apprehension in her eyes; Trained but yet savage, in her speaking face He marked the features of her vagrant race; When a light laugh and roguish leer expressed The vice implanted in her youthful breast: Forth from the tent her elder brother came, Who seemed offended, yet forbore to blame 160 The young designer, but could only trace The looks of pity in the traveller's face: Within, the father, who from fences nigh Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply, Watched now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected
Were wrathful turned, and seemed her wants to
Cursing his tardy aid - her mother there With gipsy-state engrossed the only chair; Solemn and dull her look; with such she stands, And reads the milk-maid's fortune in her hands, Tracing the lines of life; assumed through years, Each feature now the steady falsehood wears; With hard and savage eye she views the food, And grudging pinches their intruding brood; 181 Last in the group, the worn-out grandsire sits Neglected, lost, and living but by fits: Useless, despised, his worthless labours done, And half protected by the vicious son,
"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a heaven in hell's despair." 4
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