When first Tobacco blest our isle,
Then think of other queens-and smile.

Come, jovial pipe, and bring along
Midnight revelry and song;

The merry catch, the madrigal,
That echoes sweet in City Hall;
The parson's pun, the smutty tale
Of country justice o'er his ale.

I ask not what the French are doing,
Or Spain, to compass Britain's ruin :
Britons, if undone, can go

Where Tobacco loves to grow.

JOHN BYROM.

BORN 1691.-DIED 1763.

JOHN BYROM was the son of a linen-draper at Manchester. He was born at Kersal, and was educated at Merchant Taylors' school, and at Cambridge. Dr. Bentley, the father of the Phoebe of his pastoral poem, procured him a fellowship at the University, which he was obliged, however, to vacate, as he declined to go into the church. He afterwards supported himself by teaching short-hand

writing in London, till, by the death of an elder brother, he inherited the family estate, and spent the close of his life in easy circumstances.

A PASTORAL.

My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent,
When Phoebe went with me wherever I went ;
Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast:
Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest!
But now she is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvellous change on a sudden I find!
When things were as fine as could possibly be,
I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she.

With such a companion to tend a few sheep,
To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep:
I was so good-humour'd, so cheerful and gay,
My heart was as light as a feather all day,
But now I so cross, and so peevish am grown;
So strangely uneasy as never was known.

My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd, And my heart I am sure it weighs more than a pound.

The fountain, that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear: But now she is absent, I walk by its side,

And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide;

Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.

My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they;

How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, When Spring, Love, and Beauty, were all in their

prime;

But now, in their frolics when by me they pass,
I fling at their fleeces an handful of grass;

Be still then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad,
To see you so merry while I am so sad.

My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; And Phoebe was pleas'd too, and to my dog said, "Come hither, poor fellow ;" and patted his head. But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look Cry "Sirrah ;" and give him a blow with my crook: And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away?

When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I

seen,

How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, The corn fields and hedges, and ev'ry thing made! But now she has left me, though all are still there, They none of them now so delightful appear:

'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes, Made so many beautiful prospects arise.

Sweet music went with us both all the wood

through,

The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too:
Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat,
And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet.
But now she is absent, though still they sing on,
The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone:
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found,
Gave ev'ry thing else its agreeable sound.

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?
Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you drest,
And made yourselves fine for a place in her
breast:

You put on your colours to pleasure her eye,
To be pluck'd by her hand, on her bosom to die.

How slowly Time creeps till my Phœbe return! While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn: Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread,. I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down the lead.

Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear,
And rest so much longer for't when she is here.
Ah Colin old Time is full of delay,

Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say.

VOL. IV.

B B

Will no pitying pow'r, that hears me complain, Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain!

To be cur'd, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove;
But what swain is so silly to live without love?
No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return,
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair;
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your
fair.

WILLIAM SHENSTONE.
BORN 1714.-DIED 1763.

WILLIAM SHENSTONE was born at the Leasowes, in Hales Owen. He was bred at Pembroke College, Oxford, where he applied himself to poetry, and published a small miscellany in 1737, without his name. He had entertained thoughts, at one period, of studying medicine, but on coming of age he retired to a property at Harborough, left him by his mother, where, in an old romantic habitation, haunted by rooks, and shaded by oaks and elms, he gave himself up to indolence and the Muses. He came to London for the first time in 1740, and pub, lished his Judgment of Hercules. A year after appeared his School-mistress. For several years he led a wandering life of amusement, and was occasionally at Bath, London, and Cheltenham; at the last of which places he met with the Phyllis of his