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COOKE'S EDITION OF SELECT BRITISH POETS.

Painted by Kirk.

Dinted for Cooke, Paternoster Bow. July 3-1795

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Once I was skill'd in ev'ry herb that grew,
And ev'ry plant that drinks the morning dew:
Ah, wretched fhepherd, what avails thy art,
To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart!
Let other fwains attend the rural care,
Feed fairer flecks, or richer fleeces fheer:
But nigh yon' mountain let me tune my lays,
Embrace my love, and bind my brows with bays.
That flute is mine which Colin's tuneful breath
Infpir'd when living, and bequeath'd in death.
He faid, Alexis, take this pipe, the fame
That taught the grove's my Rofalinda's name:
But now the reeds fhall hang on yonder tree,
For ever filent, fince despis'd by thee.

Oh! were I made by fome transforming power,
The captive bird that fings within thy bow'r!
Then might my voice thy lift'ning ears employ,
And I thofe kiffes he receives enjoy.

And yet my numbers please the rural throng;
Rough fatyrs dance, and Pan applauds the fong:
The nymphs, forfaking every cave and fpring,
Their early fruit, and milk-white turtles bring!
Each am'rous nymph prefers her gifts in vain,
On you their gifts are all beftow'd again.
For you the fwains the faireft flow'rs delign,
And in one garland all their beauties join :
Accept the wreath which you deferve alone,
In whom all beauties are compriz'd in one.

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See what delights in fylvan fcenes appear!
Defcending gods have found Elyfium here.
In woods bright Venus with Adonis ftray'd,
And chafte Diana haunts the foreft-fhade.
Come, lovely nymph, and blefs the filent hours,
When fwains from theering feck their nightly bow'rs;
When weary reapers quit the fultry field,

And, crown'd with corn, their thanks to Ceres yield.
This harmless grove no lurking viper hides,
But in my breaft the ferpent Love abides.
Here bees from bloffoms fip the rofy dew;
But your Alexis knows no fweets but you.

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Oh

Oh deign to vifit our forfaken feats,

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The molly fountains, and the green retreats!
Where'er you walk, cool gales fhall fan the glade,
Trees, where you fit, fhall croud into a shade:
Where'er you tread, the blushing flow'rs fhall rife, 75
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.
Oh! how I long with you to pass my days,
Invoke the Mules, and refound your praise!
Your praise the birds fhall chant in ev'ry grove,
And winds fhall waft it to the pow'rs above.
But would you fing, and rival Orpheus' ftrain,
The wond'ring forefts foon fhould dance again,
The moving mountains hear the pow'rful call,
And headlong ftreams hang lift'ning in their fall!
But fee, the fhepherds fhun the noon-day heat,
The lowing herds to murm'ring brooks retreat,
To clofer fhades the panting flocks remove;
Ye Gods! and is there no relief for love?
But foon the fun with milder rays defcends
To the cool ocean, where his journey ends :
On me Love's fiercer flames for ever prey,
By night he fcorches, as he burns by day.

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BEN

PASTORAL III.

OR,

HYLAS and EGON.

TO MR. WYCHERLEY.

ENEATH the fhade a spreading beech displays, Hylas and Ægon fung their rural lays : This mourn'd a faithless, that an abfent love, And Delia's name and Doris' fill'd the grove.

Ye Mantuan Nymphs, your facred fuccour bring; $ Hylas and Ægon's rural lays I fing.

Thou whom the Nine with Plautus' wit infpire, The art of Terence, and Menander's fire; Whofe fenfe inftructs us, and whose humour charms, Whose judgment fways us, and whole spirit warms; Oh, skill'd in Nature! fee the hearts of fwains, Their artlefs paffions, and their tender pains. Now fetting Phoebus fhone ferenely bright, And fleecy clouds were streak'd with purple light; When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan,

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Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan.
Go, gentle Gales, and bear my fighs away!
To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.

As fome fad turtle his loft love deplores,

And with deep murmurs fills the founding fhores,
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, unpiry'd, and forlorn.

Go, gentle Gales, and bear my fighs along!
For her, the feather'd quires neglect their fong;
For her, the lines their pleafing fhades deny;
For her, the lilies hang their heads and die.
Ye Flow'rs that droop, forfaken by the fpring;
Ye Birds that, left by tuminer, cease to fing;
Ye Trees, that fade when autumn-heats remove,
Say, is not abfence death to those who love?

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