THYR. With heapy fires our chearful hearth is

crown'd;

And firs for torches in the woods abound:

We fear not more the winds, and wintry cold,

Than streams the banks, or wolves the bleating fold. COR. Our woods with juniper and chefnuts

crown'd,

With falling fruits and berries paint the ground;

And lavish Nature laughs, and ftrows her ftores

around.

But if Alexis from our mountains fly,

Ev'n running rivers leave their channels dry.

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THYR. Parch'd are the plains, and frying is the field, Nor withering vines their juicy vintage yield. But if returning Phyllis bless the plain, The grafs revives; the woods are green again; And Jove defcends in fhowers of kindly rain. COR. The poplar is by great Alcides worn ; The brows of Phoebus his own bays adorn; The branching vine the jolly Bacchus loves; The Cyprian queen delights in myrtle groves. With hazle Phyllis crowns her flowing hair; And while fhe loves that common wreath to wear, Nor bays, nor myrtle boughs, with hazle shall com

THYR. The towering afh is fairest in the woods; In gardens pines, and poplars by the floods : But if my Lycidas will ease my pains,

And often vifit our forfaken plains,

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Το

To him the towering afh fhall yield in woods;
In gardens pines, and poplars by the floods.

MEL. These rhymes I did to memory commend,
When vanquish'd Thyrfis did in vain contend;
Since when 'tis Corydon among the swains,
Young Corydon without a rival reigns.

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THE

THE

EIGHTH PASTORAL.

O R,

PHARMACEUTRI A.

THE ARGUMENT.

This Paftoral contains the fongs of Damon and Alphefibous. The firft of them bewails the lofs of his mistress, and repines at the success of his rival Mopfus. The other repeats the charms of fome Enchantrefs, who endeavoured, by her spells and magic, to make Daphnis in love with her.

THE mournful Mufe of two defpairing fwains,
The love rejected, and the lover's pains,

To which the favage lynxes liftening stood,

The rivers flood on heaps, and stopp'd the running flood:

The hungry herd their needful food refuse ;

Of two defpairing fwains I fing the mournful Mufe. Great Pollio, thou for whom thy Rome prepares The ready triumph of thy finish'd wars,

5

Whether

Whether Timavus or th' Illyrian coast,
Whatever land or fea thy prefence boaft;
Is there an hour in fate referv'd for me,
To fing thy deeds in numbers worthy thee?
In numbers like to thine, could I rehearse
Thy lofty tragic fcenes, thy labour'd verse;
The world another Sophocles in thee,
Another Homer fhould behold in me :
Amidft thy laurels let this ivy twine,

Thine was my earliest Muse; my latest shall be thine.
Scarce from the world the fhades of night withdrew;
Scarce were the flocks refresh'd with morning dew, zo
When Damon, ftretch'd beneath an olive shade,
And wildly staring upwards, thus inveigh'd
Against the confcious gods, and curs'd the cruel
maid:

Star of the morning, why doft thou delay ?
Come, Lucifer, drive on the lagging day?
While I my Nifa's perjur'd faith deplore;
Witness, ye Powers, by whom she falfely swore !
The gods, alas! are witneffes in vain ;

Yet fhall my dying breath to heaven complain. Begin with me, my flute, the fweet Mænalian ftrain.

The pines of Mænalus, the vocal grove, Are ever full of verfe, and full of love:

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They hear the hinds, they hear their God complain;
Who fuffer'd not the reeds to rife in vain.

Begin with me, my flute, the fweet Manalian

ftrain.

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25

Mopfus

Mopfus triumphs; he weds the willing fair: When fuch is Nifa's choice, what lover can despair! Now griffons join with mares; another age

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Shall fee the hound and hind their thirst affwage
Promifcuous at the fpring: prepare the lights,
O Mopfus! and perform the bridal rites.
Scatter thy nuts among the scrambling boys:
Thine is the night, and thine the nuptial joys.
For thee the fun declines: O happy swain!
Begin with me, my flute, the fweet Mænalian ftrain.
O, Nifa! juftly to thy choice condemn'd !
Whom haft thou taken, whom haft thou contemn'd;
For him, thou haft refus'd my browsing herd,
Scorn'd my thick eye-brows, and my shaggy beard.
Unhappy Damon fighs, and fings in vain :
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While Nifa thinks no God regards a lover's pain.
Begin with me, my flute, the fweet Manalian
ftrain.

I view'd thee firft, how fatal was the view!
And led thee where the ruddy wildings grew
High on the planted hedge, and wet with morning

dew.

Then scarce the bending branches I could win,
The callow down began to cloath my chin;

I faw, I perifh'd; yet indulg'd my pain:

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Begin with me, my flute, the fweet Mænalian strain. I know thee, love; in defarts thou wert bred; And at the dugs of favage tigers fed:

Alien of birth, ufurper of the plains:

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Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strains.

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