So thou, dear Cam, contribute to our woe,

And bid thy ftream in plaintive murmurs flow:
Thy head with thy own willow boughs adorn,
And with thy tears fupply the frugal urn.

The fwains their sheep, the nymphs fhall leave the lawn ;
And yearly on their banks renew their moan :
His mother, while they there lament, shall be
The queen of love, the lov'd Adonis he
On her, like Venus, all the Graces wait,
And he too like Adonis in his fate!

For fresh in fragrant youth he left the plan,

And is the grief, who was the grace, of every British swain.
No more the nymphs, that o'er the brooks prefide,
Dress their gay beauties by the crystal tide;
Nor fly the wintery winds, nor scorching fun,
Now he, for whom they ftrove to charm, is gone.
Oft' they beneath their reedy coverts figh❜d,
And look'd, and long'd, and for Florelio dy'd.
Of him they fang, and with foft ditties strove
To footh the pleasing agonies of love.

But now they roam, distracted with despair,
And cypress, twin'd with mournful willows, wear.
Thus, hand in hand, around his grave they go,
And faffron-buds and fading lilies ftrow,
With fprigs of myrtle mix'd, and scattering cry,

So fweet and foft the fhepherd was! fo foon decreed to die!
There fresh, in dear remembrance of their woes,

His name the young anemonies disclose :
Nor strange they should a double grief avow,
Then Venus wept, and Paftorella now.

Breathe

Breathe foft, ye winds! long let them paint the plain,
Unhurt, untouch'd by every paffing swain.

And when, ye nymphs, to make the garlands gay,
With which ye crown the Mistress of the May:
Ye fhall these flowers to bind her temples take,
O pluck them gently for Florelio's fake!

And when through Woodstock's green retreats ye stray,
Or Althrop's flowery vales invite to play;
O'er which young Paftorella's beauties bring
Elyfium early, and improve the fpring:
When evening gales attentive filence keep,
And heaven its balmy dew begins to weep,
By the foft fall of every warbling stream,

Sigh your fad airs, and bless the shepherd's name :
There to the tender lute attune your woe,
While hyacinths and myrtles round ye grow.
So may Sylvanus ever 'tend your bowers,
And Zephyr brufh the mildew from the flowers!
Bid all the fwans from Cam and Ifis hafte,
In the melodious choir to breathe their last.
O Colin, Colin, could I there complain
Like thee, when young Philifides was flain!
Thou fweet frequenter of the Mufes' stream!
Why have I not thy voice, or thou my theme?
Though weak my voice, though lowly be my lays,
They fhall be facred to the fhepherd's praise :
To him my voice, to him my lays belong,
And bright Myrtilla now must live unfung:
Even the, whofe artless beauty bless'd me more
Than ever fwain was blefs'd by nymph before;

While every tender figh to feal our blifs,

Brought a kind vow, and every vow a kifs :

Fair, chafte, and kind, yet now no more can move,
So much my grief is ftronger than my love:

Now the dear youth has left the lonely plain,

And is the grief, who was the grace, of every British swain.
As when fome cruel hind has borne away

The turtle's neft, and made the young his prey,.
Sad in her native grove she fits alone,

There hangs her wings, and murmurs out her moan.
So the bright fhepherdefs, who bore the boy,
Beneath a baleful yew does weeping lie;

Nor can the fair the weighty woe sustain,
But bends, like rofes crufh'd with falling rain;
Nor from the filent earth her eyes removes,
That, weeping, languifh like a dying dove's.
Not fuch her look (fevere reverse of fate!)
When little Loves in every dimple fate;
And all the Smiles delighted to refort
On the calm heaven of her foft cheeks to sport:
Soft as the clouds mild April evenings wear,
Which drop fresh flowrets on the youthful year.
The fountain's fall can't lull her wakeful woes,
Nor poppy-garlands give the nymph repose :
Through prickly brakes, and unfrequented groves,
O'er hills and dales, and craggy cliffs, the roves.
And when the fpies, beneath fome filent fhade,
The daifies prefs'd, where late his limbs were laid,
To the cold print there clofe fhe joins her face,
And all with gufhing tears bedews the grass.

4

There

There with loud plaints fhe wounds the pitying fkies,
And, oh! return, my lovely youth, she cries ;
Return, Florelio, with thy wonted charms
Fill the foft circle of my longing arms.
Ceafe, fair affliction, ceafe! the lovely boy

In Death's cold arms must pale and breathless lie.
The Fates can never change their first decree,
Or fure they would have chang'd this one for thee.
Pan for his Syrinx makes eternal moan,

Ceres her daughter loft, and thou thy fon.

Thy son for ever now has left the plain,

And is the grief, who was the grace, of every British swain.
Adieu, ye moffy caves, and fhady groves,
Once happy scenes of our fuccefsful loves :
Ye hungry herds, and bleating flocks, adieu!
Flints be your beds, and browze the bitter yew.
Two lambs alone fhall be my charge to feed,
For yearly on his grave two lambs fhall bleed.
This pledge of lasting love, dear fhade, receive.
'Tis all, alas, a fhepherd's love can give !
But grief from its own power will fet me free,
Will fend me foon a willing ghost to thee:
Cropt in the flowery fpring of youth, I'll go
With hafty joy to wait thy fhade below:
In ever-fragrant meads, and jasmine-bowers
We'll dwell, and all Elyfium fhall be ours.
Where citron groves æthereal odours breathe,
And ftreams of flowing cryftal purl beneath;
Where all are ever young, and heavenly fair,
As here above thy fifter Graces are.

P 3

ΑΝ

A N

O D E.

1.

WHAT art thou, Life, whose stay we court?

What is thy rival death we fear?

Since we 're but fickle Fortune's fport,

Why should the wish t' inhabit here,

And think the race we find fo rough too fhort?

II.

While in the womb we forming lie,
While yet the lamp of life displays
A doubtful dawn with feeble rays,
New iffuing from Non-entity;
The fhell of flesh pollutes with fin
Its gem, the foul, juft enter'd in ;
And, by tranfmitted vice defil'd,
The fiend commences with the child.

In this dark region future fates are bred,
And mines of fecret ruin laid:
Hot fevers here long kindling lie,
Prepar'd with flaming whips to rage,
And lafh on lingering destiny,
Whene'er excefs has fir'd our riper age.
Here brood in infancy the gout and stone,
Fruits of our fathers' follies, not our own.