"Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem." VIRG,

ALEXIS, MENAL CAS.

MENAL CAS.

BEHOLD, Alexis, see this gloomy fhade,

Which feems alone for forrow's fhelter made;
Where no glad beams of light can ever play,
But night fucceeding night excludes the day;
Where never birds with harmony repair,
And lightfome notes, to cheer the dusky air.
To welcome day, or bid the Sun farewell,
By morning lark, or evening Philomel.

No violet here, nor daisy, e'er was seen;
No fweetly-budding flower, nor fpringing green:
For fragrant myrtle, and the blushing rofe,
Here, baleful eugh with deadly cyprefs grows.
Here then, extended on this wither'd mofs,
We'll lie, and thou fhalt fing of Albion's lofs,

ament.

ALEXIS,

ALEX I S.

Wild be my words, Menalcas, wild my thought, Artlefs as nature's notes, in birds untaught; Boundless my verfe, and roving be my ftrains, 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 now 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 utmoft wilds, thy dwelling chufe, Begone, Thalia; forrow is my Mufe.

I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,

And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.

No more, these woods fhall with her fight be blefs'd, Nor with her feet thefe flowery plains be press'd;

No more the winds fhall with her treffes play,
And from her balmy breath fteal fweets away;
No more thefe rivers chearfully fhall pafs,
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 soft tales delight Her ler ears, no more with dances please her fight:

Nor ever more shall swain make song of mirth,
To bless 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 difinal grot, which damps surround,
All cold the 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 fome rare flower, whofe 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 sweets arise :
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 unusual wailings wafte the night,
And watch her, by the fiery glow-worm's light.
There may no difmal eugh nor cyprefs grow,
Nor holly-bufh, nor bitter elder's bough;
Let each unlucky bird far build his neft,
And diftant dens receive each howling beaft;
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 haste 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.

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