ALEX I S.

Wild be my words, Menalcas, wild my thought,
Artless as nature's notes, in birds untaught;
Boundless my verfe, and roving be my strains,
Various as flowers on unfrequented plains.
And thou, Thalia, darling of my breast, .
By whom infpir'd, I fung at Comus' feast;
While in a ring the jolly rural throng
Have fat and fmil'd to hear my chearful fong:
Begone, with all thy mirth and fprightly lays,
My pipe, no longer now thy power obeys;
Learn to lament, my Mufe, to weep, and mourn,
Thy fpringing laurels all to cypress turn;
Wound with thy difmal cries the tender air,
And beat thy fnowy breaft, and rend thy yellow hair;
Far hence, in utmoft wilds, thy dwelling chufe,
Begone, Thalia; forrow is my Mufe.

I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,

And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.

No more, these woods fhall with her fight be blefs'd, Nor with her feet thefe flowery plains be prefs'd;

No more the winds fhall with her treffes play,
And from her balmy breath steal sweets away;
No more thefe rivers chearfully fhall pafs,
Pleas'd to reflect the beauties of her face;

While on their banks the wondering flocks have stood,
Greedy of fight, and negligent of food.

No more the nymphs fhall with foft tales delight Her ears, no more with dances pleafe her fight:

Nor ever more shall fwain make fong of mirth,
To blefs the joyous day that gave her birth;
Loft is that day, which had from her its light;
For ever loft with her, in endless night;

In endless night and arms of death the lies,
Death in eternal fhades has fhut Paftora's eyes.
Lament, ye nymphs; and mourn, ye wretched fwains;
Stray, all
ye flocks; and defert be, ye plains;
Sigh, all ye winds; and weep, ye crystal floods;
Fade, all ye flowers; and wither, all ye woods.

I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,
And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.
Within a difinal grot, which damps furround,
All cold fhe lies upon th' unwholfome ground;
The marble weeps, and with a filent pace
Its trickling tears diftil upon her face.
Falfely ye weep, ye rocks, and falfely mourn!
For never will you let the nymph return!
With a feign'd grief the faithlefs tomb relents,
And like the crocodile its prey laments.

O fhe was heavenly fair, in face and mind!
Never in nature were fuch beauties join'd:
Without, all fhining, and within, all white;
Pure to the fenfe, and pleafing to the fight ;
Like fome rare flower, whofe leaves all colours yield,
And opening is with fweetest odours fill'd.

As lofty pines o'ertop the lowly reed,
So did her graceful height all nymphs exceed;
To which excelling height, the bore a mind
Humble, as ofiers bending to the wind.

Thus

Thus excellent fhe was-

Ah wretched fate! fhe was, but is no more.
Help me, ye hills and valleys, to deplore.

I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,
And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.
From that bleft earth, on which her body lics,
May blooming flowers with fragrant fweets arife:
Let Myrrha weeping aromatic gum,

And ever-living laurel, fhade her tomb.
Thither fet all th' induftrious bees repair,
Unlade their thighs, and leave their honey there :
Thither let Fairies with their train resort,
Neglect their revels and their midnight sport.
There in unusual wailings waste the night,
And watch her, by the fiery glow-worm's light.
There may no difinal eugh nor cyprefs grow,
Nor holly-bush, nor bitter elder's bough;
Let each unlucky bird far build his neft,
And diftant dens receive each howling bcaft;
Let wolves be gone, be ravens put to flight,
With hooting owls, and bats that hate the light.
But let the fighing doves their forrows bring,
And nightingales in fweet complainings fing;
Let fwans from their forfaken rivers fly,
And, fickening at her tomb, make haste to die,
That they may help to fing her elegy.
Let Echo too, in mimic moan, deplore,
And cry with me," Paftora is no more!"

I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,
And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.

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And

And fee the heavens to weep in dew prepare, And heavy mifts obfcure the burden'd air : A fudden damp o'er all the plain is spread, Each lily folds its leaves, and hangs its head. On every tree the bloffoms turn to tears, And every bough a weeping moisture bears. Their wings the feather'd airy people droop, And flocks beneath their dewy fleeces stoop. The rocks are cleft, and new-descending rills Furrow the brows of all th' impending hills. The water-gods to floods their rivulets turn, And each, with ftreaming eyes, fupplies his wanting urn. The Fawns forfake the woods, the Nymphs the grove, And round the plain in fad diftractions rove; In prickly brakes their tender limbs they tear, And leave on thorns their locks of golden hair.

With their fharp nails, themfelves the Satyrs wound, And tug their fhaggy beards, and bite with grief the ground.

Lo Pan himself beneath a blasted oak
Dejected lies, his pipe in pieces broke.
See Pales weeping too, in wild despair,
And to the piercing winds her bofom bare.
And fee yon fading myrtle, where appears
The queen of love, all bath'd in flowing tears;
See how fhe wrings her hands, and beats her breaft,
And tears her useless girdle from her waift :
Hear the fad murmers of her fighing doves,
For grief they figh, forgetful of their loves.

Lo, Love himself, with heavy woes opprest!
See how his forrows fwell his tender breaft;
His bow he breaks, and wide his arrows flings,

And folds his little arms, and hangs his drooping wings;
Then, lays his limbs upon the dying grafs,

And all with tears bedews his beauteous face,
With tears, which from his folded lids arife,
And even Love himfelf has weeping eyes.
All nature mourns; the floods and rocks deplore,
And cry with me, "Paftora is no more!"

I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,

And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.
The rocks can melt, and air in mifts can mourn,
And floods can weep, and winds to fighs can turn;
The birds, in fongs, their forrows can disclose,
And nymphs and fwains, in words, can tell their woes.
But, oh! behold that deep and wild defpair,
Which neither winds can fhew, nor floods, nor air.
See the great shepherd, chief of all the fwains,
Lord of thefe woods and wide-extended plains,
Stretch'd on the ground, and clofe to earth his face,
Scalding with tears th' already-faded grafs ;
To the cold clay he joins his throbbing breast,
No more within Paftora's arms to reft!

No more! For those once foft and circling arms
Themselves are clay, and cold are all her charms.
Cold are thofe lips, which he no more must kifs,
And cold that bofom, once all downy blifs;
On whofe foft pillows, lull'd in fweet delights,
He us'd, in balmy sleep, to lose the nights.