Of Albion's lofs, and of Paftora's death,

Begin thy mournful fong, and raise thy tuneful breath.

ALEX 1 S.

Ah woe too great! Ah theme which far exceeds
The lowly lays of humble fhepherds reeds!

O could I fing in verfe of equal ftrain
With the Scicilian bard, or Mantuan fwain;
Or melting words and moving numbers chufe,
Sweet as the British Colin's mourning Mufe;
Could I, like him, in tuneful grief excel,
And mourn like Stella for her Aftrofel;
Then might I raife my voice (fecure of fkill)
And with melodious woe the valleys fill;
The liftening Echo on my fong should wait,
And hollow rocks Paftora's name repeat;

Each whistling wind and murmuring stream fhould tell
How lov'd the liv'd, and how lamented fell.

MENAL CAS.

Wert thou with every bay and laurel crown'd,
And high as Pan himself in fong renown'd,

Yet would not all thy art avail, to show
Verfe worthy of her name, or of our woe:
But fuch true paffion in thy face appears,
In thy pale lips, thick fighs, and gushing tears,
Such tender forrow in thy heart I read,

As fhall fupply all skill, if not exceed.

Then leave this common form of dumb diftrefs,
Each vulgar grief can fighs and tears exprefs;
In fweet complaining notes thy paffion vent,

And not in fighs, but words explaining fighs, lament.

ALEXIS.

ALEXIS.

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 breaft,
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 how 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 breast, and rend thy yellow hair,
Far hence, in utinoft wilds, thy dwelling chufe,
Begone, Thalia; forrow is my Muse.

I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,

And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.
No more, thefe 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 pass,
Pleas'd to reflect the beauties of her face;

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

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

Nor ever more fhall 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 difmal grot, which damps surround,
All cold fhe lies upon th' unwholsome 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 some rare flower, whose 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 lies,
May blooming flowers with fragrant fweets arife:
Let Myrrha weeping aromatic gum,

And ever-living laurel, fhade her tomb.
Thither let all th' induftrious bees repair,
Unlade their thighs, and leave their honey there:
Thither let Fairies with their train refort,
Neglect their revels and their midnight sport.
There in unufual wailings waste the night,
And watch her, by the fiery glow-worm's light.
There may no difmal eugh nor cypress grow,
Nor holly-bush, nor bitter elder's bough;
Let each unlucky bird far build his nest,
And diftant dens receive each howling beast;
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 hafte 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.

}

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 blossoms 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-defcending 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
And round the plain in fad distractions rove;
In prickly brakes their tender limbs they tear,
And leave on thorns their locks of golden hair.

grove,

With their sharp nails, themselves 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 the wrings her hands, and beats her breaft,
And tears her ufelefs girdle from her waift:
Hear the fad murmers of her fighing doves,
For grief they figh, forgetful of their loves.