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Let other swains attend the rural care,

35 Feed fairer 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 said ; Alexis, take this pipe, the same That taught the groves my Rosalinda's naine : But now the reeds shall hang on yonder tree, For ever filent, fince despis'd by thee. O! were I made by some transforming power 45 The captive bird that fings within thy bower ! Then might my voice thy listening ears employ, And I those kiffes he receives enjoy.

And yet my numbers please the rural throng, Rough Satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the song : 50 The Nymphs, forsaking 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, For you

the swains the fairest flowers design, 55 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 sylvan scenes appear! Descending Gods have found Elysium here. 60 In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray'd, And chalte Diana haunts the forest shade. Come, lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours, When fwains from sheering seek their nightly bowers ; VOL. I.

D

When

you.

When weary reapers quit the sultry field,

65 And crown'd with corn their thanks to Ceres yield. This harmless grove no lurking viper hides, But in my breast the serpent Love abides. Here bees from blossoms lip the rosy dew, But your Alexis knows no sweets but

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Oh deign to visit our forsaken seats,
The moffy fountains, and the green retreats !
Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade,
Trees, where you sit, shall croud into a shade :
Where'er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise, 75
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.
Oh! how I long with you to pass my days,
Invoke the Muses, and resound your praise !
Your praise the birds shall chant in every grove,
And winds shall waft it to the powers above. 80
But would you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain,
The wondering forests soon should dance again,
The moving mountains hear the powerful call,
And headlong streams hang listening in their fall!

But see, the Ahepherds thun 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?

But
VARIATION.
8o.
Your praise the tuneful birds to heaven shall bear,

And listening wolves grow milder as they hear. So the verses were originally written : But the author, young as he was, foon found the absurdity, which Spenser himself overlooked, of introducing wolves into England,

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Ver. 79,

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. .

go

VARIATION.

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

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Eneath the shade a spreading beech displays,

Hylas and Ægon sung their rural lays :
This mourn'd a faithless, that an absent love:
And Delia's name and Doris' fill'd the grove.
Ye Mantuan nymphs, your sacred succour bring;

5 Hylas and Ægon's rural lays I sing.

I
Thou, whom the Nine with Plautus' wit inspire,
The art of Terence and Menander's fire ;
Whose sense instructs us, and whose humour charms,
Whose judgment sways us, and whose fpirit warms! 10
Oh, skill'd in Nature ! see the hearts of Swains,
Their artless passions, and their tender pains.
Now setting Phoebus shone serenely bright,
And fleecy clouds were streak'd with purple light;
When tuneful Hylas, with melodicus moan, 15
Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.

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As fome fad Turtle his loft love deplores,
And with deep murmurs fills the founding fores;
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, unpity'd, and forlorn.

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

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

every Aower, and perish all, but she.
What have I said? where'er my Delia flies,
Let spring attend, and sudden flowers arise!
Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from every

thorn.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
The birds shall cease to tune their evening song,
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain,
Not balmy sleep to labourers faint with pain,
Not showers to larks, or sun-fhine to the bee,
Are half so charming as thy light to me.

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