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The pilgrim that journeys all day

To visit fome far-distant fhrine,
If he bear but a relique away,

Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,

Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relique I bear,
And my solace wherever I go.


Y banks they are furnish'd with bees,

Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees,

hills are white-over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains all border'd with moss,
Where the hare-bells and violets grow.

Not a pine in my grove is there seen,

But with tendrils of woodbine is bound :
Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a sweet-briar twines it around. Not my fields, in the prime of the year,

More charms than my cattle unfold : Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold.

III. One

And my

One would think she might like to retire

To the bow'r I have labour'd to rear ;
Not a shrub that I heard her admire,

But I hafted and planted it there. O how sudden the jessamin Atrove

With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love, Το prune the wild branches away.

IV. From the plains, from the woodlands and groves,

What ftrains of wild melody flow ? How the nightingales warble their loves

From thickets of roses that blow! And when her bright form shall appear,

Each bird fall harmoniously join In a concert so soft and so clear,

As he may not be fond to resign.


I have found out a gift for my fair ;

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed : But let me that plunder forbear,

She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, she aver'd,

Who could rob a poor bird of its young: And I lov'd her the more, when I heard

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

VI. I have

I have heard her with sweetness unfold

How that pity was due to - a dove :
That it ever attended the bold,

And she call'd it the sister of love,
But her words such a pleasure convey,

So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever she say,
Methinks I should love her the more.

Can a bosom so gentle remain

Unmov'd, when her Corydon fighs!
Will a nyinph that is fond of the plain,

These plains, and this valley despise ?
Dear regions of silence and shade!

Soft scenes of contentment and ease!
Where I could have pleasingly ftray'd,
If aught, in her absence, could please.

But where does my Phyllida stray ?

And where are her grots and her bow'rs ?
Are the groves and the valleys as gay,

And the shepherds as gentle as ours ?
The groves may perhaps be as fair,

And the face of the valleys as fine;
The swains may in manners compare,

But their love is not equal to mine.




the free;


HY will you my passion reprove ?

Why term it a folly to grieve ?
Ere I shew you the charms of my love,

She is fairer than you can believe. With her mien she enamours the brave; With her wit she

With her modesty pleases the grave;
She is ev'ry way pleasing to me.

O you that have been of her train,

Come and join in my amorous lays ;
I could lay down my life for the swain,

That will fing but a song in her praise. When he fings, may the nymphs of the town

Come trooping, and listen the while ;
Nay on Him let nột Phyllida frown;
-But I cannot allow her to smile.

For when Paridel tries in the dance

Any favour with Phyllis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,

Might the ruin the peace of my mind! In ringlets He dresses his hair,

And his crook is be-studded around; And his pipe-oh may Phyllis beware

Of a magic there is in the found. VOL. IV.


IV. 'Tis

IV. 'Tis His with mock passion to glow ;

"Tis His in smooth tales to unfold, “ How her face is as bright as the snow,

“ And her bosom, be sure, is as cold? “ How the nightingales labour the strain,

6 With the notes of his charmer to vie ;
« How they vary their accents in vain,
“ Repine at her triumphs, and die."

To the grove or the garden he strays,

And pillages every sweet ;
Then, fuiting the wreath to his lays

He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
“ O Phyllis, he whispers, more fair,

“ More sweet than the jessamin's flow'r! • What are pinks, in a morn, to compare ? “ What is eglantine after a show'r ?

VI. « Then the lily no longer is white ;

“ Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom ; “ Then the violets die with despight,

“ And the wood-bines give up their perfume." Thus glide the foft numbers along, And he fancies no shepherd his peer ;

-Yet I never should envy the song,
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.

VII. Let

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