Mother, quoth she, let not the Poultry need, And give the Goose wherewith to raise her Breed, Be these my Sifter's Care-and ev'ry Morn Amid the Ducklings let her scatter Corn; The fickly Calf that's hous'd, be sure to tend, Feed him with Milk, and from bleak Colds defend. Yet e'er I diefee, Mother, yonder Shelf, There fecretly I've hid my wordly Pelf. Twenty good Shillings in a Rag I laid, Be ten the Parfon's, for my Sermon paid. The Reft is yoursMy Spinning-wheel and Rake, Let Sufan keep for her dear Sister's Sake; My new ftraw Hat that's trimly lin'd with green, Let Peggy wear, for fhe's a Damfel clean. My leathern Bottle, long in Harvests try'd, Be Grubbinol's-this filver Ring befide: Three filver Pennies, and a Ninepence bent, A Token kind, to Bumkinet is fent.

Thus fpoke the Maiden, while her Mother cry'd, And peaceful, like the harmless Lamb, fhe dy'd.

In this Mr. Pope endeavour'd to imitate the Stile of Mr. Gay, but the last Line betrays him; his Arcadian Strain, which charmed him in his Youth, always was his Song, except as now, he by Force chang'd a Note or two: How different are his Verfes in his fourth Paftoral, to the Memory of Mrs. Tempest:

Ye gentle Mufes leave your chryftal Spring, Let Nymphs and Sylvans Cyprefs Garlands bring ; Ye weeping Loves, the Stream with Myrtles hide, And break your Bows, as when Adonis dy'd; And with your golden Darts, now ufelefs grown, Infcribe a Verfe on this relenting Stone:

"Let

"Let Nature change, let Heav'n and Earth deplore, "Fair Daphne's dead, and Love is now no more!

'Tis done, and Nature's various Charms decay;
See gloomy Clouds obfcure the chearful Day!
Now hung with Pearls the dropping Trees appear,
Their faded Honours fcatter'd on her Bier.
See, where on Earth the flow'ry Glories lie ;
With her they flourish'd, and with her they die.
Ah what avail the Beauties Nature wore ?
Fair Daphne's dead, and Beauty is no more!
For her, the Flocks refuse their verdant Food,
Nor thirsty Heifers feek the gliding Flood.
The filver Swans her hapless Fate bemoan,
In fadder Notes than when they fing their own.
Echo no more the rural Song rebounds,
Her Name alone the mournful Echo founds,
Her Name with Pleasure once she taught the Shore,
Now Daphne's dead, and Pleasure is no more!
No grateful Dews defcend from Ev'ning Skies,
No Morning Odours from the Flow'rs arife.
No rich Perfumes refresh the fruitful Field,
Nor fragrant Herbs their native Incense yield.
The balmy Zephyrs, filent fince her Death,
Lament the ceafing of a sweeter Breath.

Th' induftrious Bees neglect their golden Store ;
Fair Daphne's dead, and Sweetness is no more!
No more the mounting Larks while Daphne fings,
Shall lift'ning in mid Air fufpend their Wings;
No more the Nightingales repeat her Lays,
Or hufh'd with Wonder, hearken from the Sprays:
No more the Streams their Murmurs fhall forbear,
A fweeter Mufick than their own to hear;
But tell the Reeds, and tell the vocal Shore,
Fair Daphne's dead, and Musick is no more!
Her Fate is whifper'd by the gentle Breeze,
And told in Sighs to all the trembling Trees

K 3

The

The trembling Trees, in ev'ry Plain and Wood,
Her Fate remurmur to the filver Flood;
The filver Flood, fo lately calm, appears

Swell'd with new Paffion, and o'erflows with Tears;
The Winds and Trees and Floods her Death deplore,
Daphne, our Grief! our Glory now no morę.

Here you fee all the Harmony of Numbers, and Beauty of Poetry. It is, notwithstanding, a very great Pity, that Mr. Pope did not, inftead of writing Paftoral fo young, defer it to be one of his laft Works; for Paftoral Poetry (we dare boldly affert) is the most difficult of all, and never fo well conducted as when it is Dramatick: This Mr. Walsh feems thoroughly fenfible of, when he fo earnestly perfwades Mr. Pope to write a Paftoral Comedy. It was this high, harmonious Verfe, made Sir Richard Steele fay, it was not Pastoral, but fomewhat better; allowing at the fame Time, that Mr. Philips had wrote in a Stile truly Paftoral, which evidently fhews the Partiality of Sir Richard to that Author: For when he writes on the fame Subject in his third Paftoral, fpeaking of the Death of Albina, (under which Character he endeavours to figure the young Duke of Gloucester, the only Child of Queen Anne) we fhould be gladly inform'd, whether he has not aimed as high as Mr. Pope, though, to be fure, his Strain is widely different. Give Attention, Reader, to his Attempt:

Can we forget how ev'ry Creature moan'd,
And fympathizing Rocks in Eccho groan'd,
Prefaging future Woe, when, for our Crimes,
We loft Albino, Pledge of peaceful Times?
The Pride of Britain, and the darling Joy
Of all the Plains, and ev'ry Shepherd Boy,

No

No joyous Pipe was heard, no Flocks were seen,
Nor Shepherds found upon the graffy Green;
No Cattle graz'd the Field, nor drunk the Flood;
No Birds were heard to warble thro' the Wood.
In yonder gloomy Grove stretch'd out he lay,
His beauteous Limbs upon the damping Clay;
The Rofes on his pallid Cheeks decay'd,
And o'er his Lips a livid Hue difplay'd:
Bleating around him lye his pensive Sheep,
And mourning Shepherds come in Crowds to weep;
The pious Mother comes, with Grief opprefs'd;
Ye, confcious Trees and Fountains, can attest
With what fad Accents and what moving Cries
She fill'd the Grove, and importun'd the Skies,
And ev'ry Star upbraided with his Death,
When in her Widow'd Arms, devoid of Breath,
She clafp'd her Son. Nor did the Nymph for this
Place in her Dearling's Welfare all her Blifs,
And teach him young the Sylvan Crook to wield,
And rule the peaceful Empire of the Field.

As milk-white Swans on filver Streams do fhow,
And filver Streams to grace the Meadows flow;
As Corn the Vales, and Trees the Hills adorn,
So thou to thine an Ornament was born.

Since thou, delicious Youth, didft quit the Plains,
Th' ungrateful Ground we till with fruitless Pains :
In labour'd Furrows fow the Choice of Wheat,
And over empty Sheaves in Harvest sweat:
A thin Increase our woolly Subftance yields,
And Thorns and Thiftles overspread the Fields.

What wants there here of the Arcadian Stile. This also must be pronounced to be no Paftoral, but fomething better; that is, Sir Richard Steele means finer Verfes, too high for Shepherds Notes: Nay,

this Poet foar'd fo high in his Paftorals, that he has afpined to rob the Canticles:

Breath foft, ye Winds; ye Waters gently flow; Shield her ye Trees; ye Flowers around her grow; Ye Swains, I beg you, pafs in Silence by ; My Love in yonder Vale asleep does lie.

In the Song of Solomon, from which he has tranflated it, our Verfion has it, Chap. ii. Verse 5, " I "charge you, O ye Daughters of Jerufalem! by the "Roes and by the Hinds of the Field, that you not fir

not up nor awake my Love, 'till he pleases." We would by no Means be understood to blame this Liberty, more especially in this Place, the Song of Solomon being most beautifully Paftoral; we rather take an Opportunity to encourage Poets, to adorn their Verfes with Flowers from that Eastern Garden, and make no Scruple, thinking it is thereby profaned, for it is indeed thereby the more honour'd. And certain it is, the aforementioned Song of Solomon is fitlier imitated by Paftoral Writers, than many Poets pretending to have touch'd on the Strains of Shepherds. Lefs pleaseth me Mr. Philips, (notwithftanding much Sound be in the Verfe) where he laments the Death of Stella: Such courtly Lines are meet for Perfonages, more than ruftick Swains and Youths, who have fpent great Travail in Education, might wail in fuch Guife:

Unhappy Colinet! What boots thee now

To weave fresh Garlands for the Damfel's Brow
Throw by the Lilly, Daffadil, and Rofe;
One of black Yew, and Willow pale, compofe,
With baneful Henbane, deadly Night-fhade dreft;
A Garland, that may witnefs thy Unrest.

My