The shepherd wonder'd at the just replies,
At first mistaken for the vocal-breeze;
But, when he found his little rival near,
Imbibing music both at eye and ear,
With a sublimer touch he swept the lute,
A summons to the musical dispute.
The summons she receiv’d, resolved to try,
And daring, warbled out a bold reply.
Now sweetest thoughts the gentle swain inspire,
And with a dying softness tune the lyre;
Echo the vernal music of the woods,
Warble the murmurs of the falling floods.
Thus sweet he sings, but sweetly sings in vain,
For Philomela breathes a softer strain;
With easier art she modulates each note,
More natral music melting in her throat.
Much he admir'd the magic of her tongue,
But more to find his lute and harp outdone.
And now to loftier airs he tunes the strings,
And now to loftier airs his echo sings;
Though loud as thunder, though as swift as thought,
She reach'd the swelling, caught the flying note;
In trembling treble, now in solemn bass,
She show'd how nature could his art surpass,
Amaz'd, at length; with rage the shepherd burn'd,
His admiration into anger turn’d;
Inflam’d, with emulating pride he stood,
And thus defy'd the charmer of the wood:

And wilt thou still my music imitate? Then see thy folly and thy task is great: For, know, more pow'rful lays remain unsung, Lays far superior to thy mimic tongue. If not, this lute, this vanquislı'd lute, I swear, Shall never more delight the ravish'd ear; But broke, in scatter'd fragnients strew the plain, And mourn the glories which it could not gain. He said, and as he said, his soul on fire, With a disdainful air, he struck the lyre. Quick to the touch, the tides of music flow, Swell into strength, or melt away in woe: Now raise the shrilling trumpet's clanging jar, And imitated thunders rouse the war: Now soft'ning sounds, and sadly-pleasing strains, Breathe out the lover's joys, and lover's pains. He sung; and ceas'd her rival notes to hear, As his dy'd list’ning in the ambient air. But now, too late, her noble folly found, Sad Philomela stood subdu'd by sound : Though vanquish’d, yet with gen'rous ardour fill'd, Ignobly still she scorn'd to quit the field; But slowly faint her plaintive accents flow, Weaken’d with grief, and overcharg'd with woe. Again she tunes her voice, again she sings, Strains every nerve, and quivers on her wingshu In vain her sinking spirits fade away, And in a tuneful agony decay:

Dying she fell, and as the strains expire, Breath'd out her soul in anguish on the lyre; Dissolv'd in transport, she resign'd her breath, And gain'd a living conquest by her death

DAY: A PASTORAL.

BY CUNNINGHAM.

MORNING.

Carpe diem.

HOR,

1.
In the barn the tenant cock,

Close to Partlet perch'd on high,
Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock !)

Jocund that the morning's nigb.

2.
Swiftly from the mountain's brow,

Shadows, nurs’d by night, retire;
And the peeping sun-beam now

Paints with gold the village spire.

3. Philomel forsakes the thorn,

Plaintive where she prates at night, And the lark, to meet the morn,

Soars beyond the shepherd's sight.

4. From the low-roof'd cottage ridge,

See the chatt’ring swallow spring; Darting through the one-arch'd bridge, Quick she dips her dappled wing.

5.
Now the pine-tree's waving top

Gently greets the morning gale:
Kidlings now begin to crop
Daisies on the dewy dale.

6.
From the balmy sweet, uncloy'd,

(Restless till her task be done) Now the busy bee's employ'd Sipping dew before the sun.

7. Trickling through the crevic'd rock,

Where the limpid stream distils, Sweet refreshment waits the flock When 'tis sun-drove from the hills.

8. Colin's for the promis'd corn

(Ere the harvest bopes are ripe) Anxious ;-whilst the huntsman's horn, Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe.

9. Sweet -0 sweet, the warbling throng.

On the white emblossom'd spray! Nature's universal song

Echoes to the rising day.

NOON.

10.

FERVID

on the glitt'ring flood
Now the noontide radiance glows;
Drooping o'er its infant bud,
Not a dew-drop's left the rose.

11.
By the brook the shepherd dines,

From the fierce meridian heat Shelter'd by the branching pines Pendent o’er his grassy seat.

12. Now the flock forsakes the glade,

Where uncheck'd the sun-beams fall: Sure to find a pleasing shade By the ivy'd abbey wall.

13. Echo in her airy round,

O'er the river, rock, and hill, Cannot catch a single sound, Save the clack of yonder mill.

14. Cattle court the zephyrs bland,

Where the streamlet wanders cool Or with languid silence stand

Midway in the marshy pool.