A

S

ON G.

This, by Mr. Rowe, is better than any thing of the kind in our language.

D

I.

ESPAIRING befide a clear ftream, A fhepherd forfaken was laid; And, while a false nymph was his theme, A willow fupported his head.

The wind that blew over the plain,

To his fighs with a figh did reply; And the brook, in return to his pain,. Ran mournfully murmuring by.

II.

Alas! filly fwain that I was ;

(Thus fadly complaining he cry'd); When firft I beheld that fair face,

'Twere better by far I had dy'd :: She talk'd, and I blefs'd her dear tongue; When the fmil'd, it was pleasure too great;

I liften'd, and cry'd when she sung,

Was nightingale ever so sweet!

III.

How foolish was I to believe

She could doat on fo lowly a clown, Or that her fond heart would not grieve

To forfake the fine folk of the town;

To think that a beauty fo gay,

So kind and fo conftant would prove; Or go clad like our maidens in grey,

Or live in a cottage on love?

IV.

What though I have skill to complain,

Though the Mufes my temples have crown'd;
What tho', when they hear my soft strains,
The virgins fit weeping around?

Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel refign,

Thy fair one inclines to a twain,
Whofe mufic is fweeter than thine.

All you, my companions fo dear,
Who forrow to fee me betray'd,
Whatever I fuffer, forbear,

Forbear to accufe the falfe maid.

Tho' thro' the wide world I should range,
'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly;
'Twas her's to be falfe and to change;
'Tis mine to be conftant and die.

VI.

If, while my hard fate I fuftain,

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

The laft humble boon that I crave,
Is to fhade me with cyprefs and yew;
And when she looks down on my grave,
Let her own that her fhepherd was true.

VII.

Then to her new love let her go,
And deck her in golden array;
Be finest at ev'ry fine fhow,

And frolic it all the long day:
While Colin, forgotten and gone,
No more fhall be talk'd of or seen,
Unless when, beneath the pale moon,
His ghost shall glide over the green.

AN

A N

E S S

A Y

ON

POETRY.

This work, by the duke of Buckingham, is enrolled among our great English productions. The precepts are fenfible, the poetry not indifferent, but it has been praised more than it deserves.

F all thofe arts in which the wife excel,

OF

Nature's chief mafter-piece is writing well:
No writing lifts exalted man fo high,
As facred and foul-moving poefy:

No kind of work requires fo nice a touch;
And, if well finish'd, nothing shines fo much.
But Heav'n forbid we fhould be so profane,
To grace the vulgar with that noble name.
'Tis not a flash of fancy, which, fometimes,
Dazzling our minds, sets off the slightest rhimes;
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done:
True wit is everlasting, like the fan,

Which, tho' fometimes behind a cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.
Number and rhime, and that harmonious found,
Which not the niceft ear with harshness wound,

Are