The Works of the English Poets

Unbearing branches from their head, And grafts more happy in their stead : Or, climbing to a hilly steep,

He views his herds in vales afar,
Or fheers his overburden'd sheep,

Or mead for cooling drink prepares,
Of virgin honey in the jars.

Or in the now-declining year,

When bounteous Autumn rears his head,

He joys to pull the ripen'd pear,

And clustering grapes with purple spread.

The fairest of his fruit he ferves,
Priapus, thy rewards :
Sylvanus too his part deferves,

Whofe care the fences guards.
Sometimes beneath an ancient oak,

Or on the matted grafs, he lies;
No God of fleep he need invoke ;
The ftream that o'er the pebbles flies

With gentle flumber crowns his eyes.
The wind that whistles through the fprays

Maintains the concert of the fong;

And hidden birds with native lays

The golden fleep prolong.

But, when the blast of winter blows,

And hoary froft inverts the year,

Into the naked woods he goes,

And feeks the tufty boar to rear,

With well-mouth'd hounds and pointed spear!

Or fpreads his fubtle nets from fight

With twinkling glaffes, to betray The larks that in the mehes light,

Or makes the fearful hare his prey.
Amidt his harmless eafy joys

No anxious care invades his health,
Nor love his peace of mind deftroys,
Nor wicked avarice of wealth.
But if a chafte and pleasing wife,
To eafe the business of his life,
Divides with him his houshold care,
Such as the Sabine matrons were,
Such as the fwift Apulian's bride,
Sun-burnt and fwarthy though the be,

Will fire for winter-nights provide,
And without noife will overfee
His children and his family;
And order all things till he come,
Sweaty and overlabour'd, home;
If he in pens his flocks will fold,

And then produce her dairy ftore,
With wine to drive away the cold,

And unbought dainties of the poor; Not oyfters of the Lucrine lake

My fober appetite would wish, Nor turbot, or the foreign fish That rolling tempests overtake, And hither waft the coftly dish. Not heathpout, or the rarer bird, Which Phafis or Ionia yields,

More pleafing morfels would afford

Than the fat olives of my fields; Than fhards or mallows for the pot,

That keep the loofen'd body found,
Or than the lamb, that falls by lot

To the juft guardian of my ground.
Amidst these feafts of happy fwains,
The jolly fhepherd smiles to fee
His flock returning from the plains;
The farmer is as pleas'd as he
To view his oxen sweating smoke,
Bear on their necks the loofen'd yoke :
To look upon his menial crew,

That fit around his chearful hearth,

And bodies spent in toil renew

With wholesome food and country mirth.

This Morecraft faid within himself,
Refolv'd to leave the wicked town:

And live retir'd upon his own,

He call'd his money in ;

But the prevailing love of pelf,
Soon fplit him on the former shelf,
it out again.

He put

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