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To visit fome far-distant fhrine,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
hills are white-over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss,
Such health do my fountains bestow;
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound :
But a sweet-briar 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.
To the bow'r I have labour'd to rear ;
But I hafted and planted it there. O how sudden the jessamin Atrove
With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love, Το prune the wild branches away.
IV. From the plains, from the woodlands and groves,
What ftrains 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 fall harmoniously join In a concert so soft and so clear,
As he 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 forbear,
She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, she aver'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.
VI. I have
How that pity was due to - a dove :
And she call'd it the sister of love,
So much I her accents adore,
Unmov'd, when her Corydon fighs!
These plains, and this valley despise ?
Soft scenes of contentment and ease!
And where are her grots and her bow'rs ?
And the shepherds as gentle as ours ?
And the face of the valleys as fine;
But their love is not equal to mine.
Why term it a folly to grieve ?
She is fairer than you can believe. With her mien she enamours the brave; With her wit she
Come and join in my amorous lays ;
That will fing but a song in her praise. When he fings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and listen the while ;
Any favour with Phyllis to find,
Might the ruin the peace of my mind! In ringlets He dresses his hair,
And his crook is be-studded around; And his pipe-oh may Phyllis beware
Of a magic there is in the found. VOL. IV.
IV. '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 labour the strain,
6 With the notes of his charmer to vie ;
And pillages every sweet ;
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
“ More sweet than the jessamin's flow'r! • What are pinks, in a morn, to compare ? “ What is eglantine after a show'r ?
VI. « Then the lily no longer is white ;
“ Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom ; “ Then the violets die with despight,
“ And the wood-bines give up their perfume." Thus glide the foft numbers along, And he fancies no shepherd his peer ;
-Yet I never should envy the song,