'Mong ruftick Routs the chief for wanton Game
Nor could they merry make 'till Lobbin came.
Who better feen, than I, in Shepherds Arts,
To please the Lads and win the Laffes Hearts?
How deftly to mine oaten Reed fo fweet,
Wont they, upon the Green, to fhift their Feet?
And, when the Dance was done, how would they
Some well devised Tale from me to learn? [yearn
For, many Songs and Tales of Mirth had I,
To chafe the lingring Sun adown the Sky
But, ah! fince Lucy coy has wrought her Spite
Within my Heart; unmindful of Delight,
The jolly Grooms I fly; and all alone

To Rocks and Woods pour forth my fruitless Moan
Oh quit thy wonted Scom, relentless Fair!
E'er, lingring long, I perifh thro' Despair, w
Had Rofalind been Mistress of my Mind,
Tho' not fo fair, fhe would have been more kind
O think, unwitting Maid, while yet is Time,.
How flying Years impare our youthful Prime 11:
Thy Virgin Bloom will not for ever stay;
And Flow'rs, tho' left ungather'd, will decay.
The Flow'rs a new returning Seafons bring q
But Beauty faded has no fecond Spring. I bad

My Words are Wind! She, deaf to all my Cries,
Takes Pleafure in the Mifchief of her Eyes
Like frifking Heifers, loose in flow'ry Meads,
She gads where e'er her roving Fancy leads;
Yet ftill from me. Ah me, the tirefome Chace !!
While, wing'd with Scorn, the flies my fond Em-
She flies indeed: But ever leaves behind, [brace.
Fly where the will, her Likenefs in my Mind.
Ah turn-thee then! Unthinking Damfel! Why,
Thus from the Youth, who loves thee, fhould't thou
No cruel Parpole in my Speed I bear

Tis all but Love; and Love why fhould'ft thou fear?

What

What idle Fears a Maiden Breaft alarm!
Stay, fimple Girl! a Lover cannot harm.

What can be finer! It would be Injustice to Mr. Philips, and to our own Soul, not to confefs, that we think no Body who has any the leaft Harmony in their Mind, but it must be awak'd, and fympathize with this.

Mr. Pope introduces Alexis, and puts into his
Mouth a very sweet Complaint:

That Flute is mine, which Colin's tuneful Breath
Infpir'd when living, and bequeath'd in Death:
He faid, Alexis, take this Pipe, the fame
That taught the Groves my Rofalinda's Name :
But now the Reeds fhall hang on yonder Tree
For-ever filent, fince defpis'd by thee:
Oh! Were I made by fome transforming Pow'r,
The captive Bird that fings within thy Bow'r,
Then might my Voice thy liftning Ears employ,
And I thofe Kiffes he receives, enjoy.

And yet my Numbers please the rural Throng,
Rough Satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the Song:
The Nymphs forfaking ev'ry Cave and Spring,
Their early Fruit, and milk-white Turtles bring,
Each am'rous Nymph prefers her Gifts in vain,
On you their Gifts are all beftow'd again!
For you the Swains the faireft Flow'rs defign,
And in one Garland all their Beauties join;
Accept the Wreath which you deserve alone,
In whom all Beauties are compriz'd in one.

See what Delights in Sylvan Scenes appear!
Defcending Gods have found Elyzium here.
In Woods bright Venus with Adonis ftray'd,
And chafte Diana haunts the Foreft-fhade."

Come,

Efq; 145 Come, lovely Nymph, and bless the filent Hours; When Swains from fhearing feek their nightly Bow'rs; When weary Reapers quit the fultry Field,

And crown'd with Corn, their Thanks to Ceres yield.
This harmless Grove no lurking Viper hides,
But in my Breaft the Serpent Love abides.
Here Bees from Bloffoms fip the rofy Dew,
But your Alexis knows no Sweet but you,
Some God conduct you to these blissful Seats,
The mofly Fountains, and the green Retreats!
Where'er you walk, cool Gales fhall fan the Glade,
Trees, where you fit, fhall crowd into a Shade,
Where'er you tread, the blushing Flow'rs fhall rife,
And all Things flourish where you turn your Eyes.
Oh! how I long with you to pass my Days,
Invoke the Muses, and refound your Praise;
Your Praise the Birds fhall chant in ev'ry Grove,
And Winds fhall waft it to the Pow'rs above,
But would you fing, and rival Orpheus' Strain,
The wond'ring Forefts foon fhould dance again,
The moving Mountains hear the pow'rful Call,
And headlong Streams hang lift'ning in their Fall,

Great has been the Strife whether these Verses, or thofe of Mr. Ambrofe Philips juft mentioned, are moft worthy of Praife, which we believe no fmall Difficulty to decide.

Either of them may ferve for future Poets to imitate, who purpofe to excel in this Sicilian, or Arcadian Paftoral Stile: Many Friends has this Manner of Writing, its Softnefs ftealing thro' the Ear; most young Minds are moft ftrongly affected with it, it warms the very Hearts of all who are touch'd with the fine Paffion of Love, and infufes a difinterested and noble Spirit into the Soul: It banishes from the Breast every Thing mean and contemptible, and VOL. II.

L

places

places in the Stead, a generous Beneficence and Benevolence, to that the Mind becomes perfectly ferene and humane.

Not lefs pleafing is our Devonshire Shepherd, Mr. Gay, tho' his Images are much more familiar. Sparabella bewails her loft Love, devifing her fad Plaint in these mournful Notes:

Come Night as dark as Pitch, furround my Head, From Sparabella Bumkinet is fled;

The Ribbon that his val'rous Cudgel won,
Laft Sunday happier Clumfilis put on.

Sure, if he'd Eyes (but Love, they fay, has none)
I whilome by that Ribbon had been known.
Ah, well a-day! I'm fhent with baneful 'Smart,
For with the Ribbon he beftow'd his Heart.

My Plaint, ye Laffes, with this Burthen aid, 'Tis hard fo true a Damfel dies a Maid.

I've often feen my Vifage in yon Lake, Nor are my Features of the homelieft Make. Though Clumfilis may boaft a whiter Dye, Yet the black Sloe turns in my rolling Eye; And faireft Bloffoms drop with ev'ry Blaft, But the brown Beauty will like Hollies laft. Her wan Complexion's like the wither'd Leek, While Katherine Pears adorn my ruddy Cheek. Yet fhe, alas! The witlefs Lout hath won, And by her Gain, poor Sparabell's undone ! Let Hares and Hounds in coupling Straps unite, The clocking Hen make Friendship with the Kite, Let the Fox fimply wear the nuptial Noofe, And join in Wedlock with the wadling Goose ; For Love hath brought a stranger Thing to pafs, The faireft Shepherd weds the fouleft Lafs. My Plaint, ye Laffes, with this Burthen aid, 'Tis hard fo true a Damfel dies a Maid.

Ah!

Ah! didft thou know what Proffers I withstood,
When late I met the Squire in yonder Wood!
To me he fped, regardless of his Game,

While all my Cheek was glowing red with Shame;
My Lip he kifs'd, and prais'd my healthful Look,
Then from his Purfe of Silk a Guinea took,
Into my Hand he forc d the tempting Gold,
While I with modeft ftruggling broke his Hold.
He fwore that Dick in Liv'ry ftrip'd with Lace,
Should wed me foon to keep me from Difgrace;
But I nor Footman priz'd nor golden Fee,
For what is Lace or Gold compar'd to thee?
My Plaint, ye Laffes, with this Burthen aid,
'Tis hard fo true a Damfel dies a Maid.

An Image fo naturally painted, never fails to please good Judges; Mr. Gay has (I think we may venture to fay fo) pleas'd all, for he liv'd fuch an inoffenfive Life, that he made no Enemies, and in his Writings copied Nature so closely, and kept up fuch a Spirit of Wit and good Humour in his Performances, that all judicious Readers were his Admirers.

Let us turn to our Dramatick Paftoral Writers, and juft fee how they have acquitted themselves, whether their Lovers do not complain as fweetly as poffible, and how finely Taffe has brought in Amintas fpeaking to Thyrfis, making him in his Reply affift the Love-fick and fcorn'd Shepherd.

Amintas.

O! I have heard the Waves and fenfelefs Stones, Echo my Sighs, and Trees return my Groans Compaffion I must never hope to fee

In her whofe Chain I wear, that cruel fhe,
Whofe lovely Form conceals a favage Heart,
Where Want of Pity heightens all my Smart:

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Than