Go, gentle Gales, and bear my fighs away!
Curs'd be the fields that cause my Delia's stay :
Fade ev'ry bloffom, wither ev'ry tree,
Die ev'ry flow'r, and perish all but she.
What have I said? Where'er my Delia flies,
Let fpring attend, and fudden flow'rs arife!
Let op'ning rofes knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from ev'ry thorn.

Go, gentle Gales, and bear my fighs along!
The birds fhall ceafe to tune their ev❜ning fong,
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And ftreams to murmur, ere I ceafe to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain,
Not balmy fleep to lab'rers faint with pain,
Not fhow'rs to larks, or funfhine to the bee,
Are half fo charming as thy fight to me.

Go, gentle Gales, and bear my fighs away!
Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay?
Through rocks and caves the name of Delia founds,
Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds.
Ye Pow'rs, what pleafing frenzy foothes
Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?
She comes, my Delia comes!-Now cease my lay,
And ceafe, ye Gales, to bear my fighs away!

my mind!

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Next Egon fung, while Windfor groves admir'd: Rehearse, ye Mufes, what yourselves infpir'd. Refound, ye Hills, refound my mournful strain! Of perjur'd Doris, dying I complain: Here where the mountains, lefs'ning as they rise, Lofe the low vales, and steal into the fkies; While lab'ring oxen, fpent with toil and heat, In their loofe traces from the field retreat; While curling fmoaks from village-tops are feen, And the fleet fhades glide o'er the dulky green.

Refound, ye Hills, refound my mournful lay! Beneath yon' poplar oft we pafs'd the day: Oft' on the rind I carv'd her am'rous vows, While fhe with garlands hung the bending boughs: The garlands fade, the vows are worn away; So dies her love, and so my hopes decay.

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Refound,

Refound, ye Hills, refound my mournful ftrain! Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain; Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine, And grateful clusters fwell with floods of wine; Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove: Juft Gods! fhall all things yield returns but love? Refound, ye Hills, refound my mournful lay! The fhepherds cry, "Thy flocks are left a prey.” Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep, Who loft my heart while I preferv'd my sheep? Pan came, and afk'd, What magic caus'd my smart, Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart ? What eyes but her's, alas, have pow'r to move! And is there magic but what dwells in love!

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Refound, ye Hills, refound my mournful ftrains! I'll fly from thepherds, flocks, and flow'ry plains; 86 From thepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove, Forfake mankind, and all the world,--but Love! I know thee, Love! on foreign mountains bred, Wolves gave thee fuck, and favage tygers fed; Thou wert from Ætna's burning entrails torn, Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born!

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Refound, ye Hills, refound my mournful lay! Farewell, ye Woods, adieu the light of day! One leap from yonder cliff fhall end my pains : No more, ye Hills, no more refound my trains! Thus fung the fhepherds till th' approach of night, The skies yet blushing with departing light, When falling dews with fpangles deck'd the glade, And the low fun had lengthen'd ev'ry fhade. E 2

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WINTER.
PASTORAL IV.

OR,

DAPHNE.

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. TEMPEST.

Lycidas.

THYRSIS! the mufic of that murm'ring spring
Is not fo mournful as the strains you fing;
Nor rivers winding through the vales below,
So fweetly warble, or fo imoothly flow.
Now fleeping flocks on their foft fleeces ly,
The moon, ferene in glory, mounts the sky,
Whilft filent birds forget their tuneful lays,
Oh fing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's praife!
Thyr. Behold the groves that shine with filver froft,
Their beauty wither'd, and their verdure loft.
Here fhall I try the fweet Alexis' ftrain,
That call'd the lift'ning Dryads to the plain?
Thames heard the numbers, as he flow'd along,
And bade his willows learn the moving fong.

Lys. So may kind rains their vital moisture yield,
And fwell the future harveft of the field.
Begin; this charge the dying Daphne gave,
And faid, "Ye fhepherds, fing around my grave!"
Sing, while befide the fhaded tomb I mourn,
And with fresh bays her rural fhrine adorn.

Thyr. Ye gentle Mufes, leave your crystal spring;
Let nymphs and fylvans cypress garlands bring:
Ye weeping Loves, the ftream with myrtles hide,
And break your bows, as when Adonis dy'd;
And with your golden darts, now useless grown,
Intcribe a verfe on this relenting stone:
"Let nature change, let heav'n and earth deplore;
"Fair Daphne's dead, and love is now no more!"

'Tis done; and Nature's various charms decay; See gloomy clouds obscure the cheerful day!

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Now