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Let other fwains attend the rural care,

Feed fahrer flocks, or richer fleeces fheer:

But nigh yon' mountain let me tune my lays,
Embrace my Love, and bind my brows with bays.
That flute is mine which Colin's tuneful breath
Inspir'd when living, and bequeath'd in death :
He faid; Alexis, take this pipe, the fame
That taught the groves my Rosalinda's naine :
But now the reeds fhall hang on yonder tree,
For ever filent, fince defpis'd by thee.

O! were I made by fome transforming power
The captive bird that fings within thy bower!
Then might my voice thy liftening ears employ,
And I thofe kiffes, he receives enjoy.

And yet my numbers please the rural thròng,
Rough Satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the fong:
The Nymphs, forfaking every cave and spring,
Their early fruit and milk-white turtles bring!
Each amorous nymph prefers her gifts in vain,
On you their gifts are all bestow'd again,

you the swains the fairest flowers defign,
And in one garland all their beauties join ;
Accept the wreath which you deserve alone,
In whom all beauties are compriz'd in one.

See what delights in fylvan fcenes appear!
Defcending Gods have found Elyfium here.
In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray'd,
And chafte Diana haunts the forest shade.







Come, lovely nymph, and blefs the filent hours,
When fwains from fheering feek their nightly bowers;

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When weary reapers quit the fultry field,

And crown'd with corn their thanks to Ceres yield.
This harmless grove no lurking viper hides,

But in my breaft the serpent Love abides.
Here bees from blossoms fip the rofy dew,
But Alexis knows no fweets but you.


Oh deign to visit our forfaken seats,

The moffy fountains, and the green retreats!




Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade,
Trees, where you fit, shall croud into a shade:
Where'er you tread, the blushing flowers fhall rife, 75
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.
Oh! how I long with you to país my days,
Invoke the Muses, and refound your praise!
Your praise the birds shall chant in every grove,
And winds fhall waft it to the powers above.
But would you fing, and rival Orpheus' strain,
The wondering forests foon should dance again,
The moving mountains hear the powerful call,
And headlong ftreams hang listening in their fall!
But fee, the hepherds fhun the noon-day heat,
The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat,
To closer shades the panting flocks remove;
Ye gods! and is there no relief for Love?



Ver. 79, 80.


Your praise the tuneful birds to heaven shall bear, And liftening wolves grow milder as they hear. So the verses were originally written: But the author, young as he was, foon found the abfurdity, which Spenfer himself overlooked, of introducing wolves into England,

But foon the fun with milder

rays defcends

To the cool ocean, where his journey ends :
On me Love's fiercer flames for ever prey,
By night he scorches, as he burns by day.


Ver. 91. Me love inflames, nor will his fires allay.


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ENEATH the fhade a spreading beech displays,
Hylas and Ægon fung their rural lays :

This mourn'd a faithlefs, that an abfent love:
And Delia's name and Doris' fill'd the grove.
Ye Mantuan nymphs, your facred fuccour bring;
Hylas and Ægon's rural lays I fing.

Thou, whom the Nine with Plautus' wit infpire,
The art of Terence and Menander's fire;

Whose sense inftructs us, and whofe humour charms,


Whofe judgment fways us, and whofe fpirit warms! 10 Oh, skill'd in Nature! fee the hearts of Swains,

Their artless paffions, and their tender pains.

Now fetting Phoebus fhone ferenely bright,

And fleecy clouds were streak'd with purple light;
When tuneful Hylas, with melodicus moan,


Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan. Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away!

To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.


As fome fad Turtle his loft love deplores,

And with deep murmurs fills the founding shores ; 20
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, unpity'd, and forlorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs along!
For her, the feather'd quires neglect their fong:
For her, the limes their pleafing fhades deny;
For her, the lilies hang their heads, and die.
Ye flowers that droop, forfaken by the spring,
Ye birds that, left by fummer, cease to fing,
Ye trees that fade when autumn heats remove,
Say, is not abfence death to those who love;

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away! Curs'd be the fields that caufe my Delia's ftay; Fade every bloffom, wither every tree,



Die every flower, and perifh all, but she.

What have I faid? where'er my Delia flies,
Let spring attend, and fudden flowers arise!
Let opening rofes knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from every thorn.


Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!

The birds fhall ceafe to tune their evening fong,


The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,

And ftreams to murmur, ere I cease to love.

Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain,

Not balmy fleep to labourers faint with pain,

Not showers to larks, or fun-fhine to the bee,
Are half fo charming as thy fight to me.
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