'Tis his with mock paffion to glow:
'Tis his in fmooth tales to unfold,
"How her face is as bright as the fnow,
"And her bofom, be fure, is as cold;
"How the nightingales labour the strain,
"With the notes of his charmer to vie;
"How they vary their accents in vain,
"Repine at her triumphs, and die."
To the grove or garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
Then, fuiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phillis's feet.
"O Phillis," he whipfers, "more fair,
"More fweet than the jeffamine's flow'r;
"What are pinks, in the morn to compare?
"What is eglantine, after a fhow'r?
"Then the lily no longer is white;
« Then the rose is depriv'd of its, bloom ; "Then the violets die with defpight,
"And the woodbines give up their perfume."
Thus glide the foft numbers along,
And he fancies no fhepherd his peer:
-Yet I never should envy the song,
Were not Phillis to lend it an ear.
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,
So Phillis the trophy defpife;
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
So they fhine not in Phillis's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue;
-Yet may fhe beware of his art,
Or fure I must envy the song.
YE fhepherds give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my fheep:
They have nothing to do but to stray;
I have nothing to do but to weep.
Yet do not my folly reprove:
She was fair-and my paffion begun;
She fmil'd and I could not but love;
She is faithlefs---and I am undone.
Perhaps I was void of all thought;
Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
That a nymph fo complete would be fought,
By a fwain more engaging than me.
Ah! love ev'ry hope can inspire;
It banishes wisdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.
She is faithlefs, and I am undoné :
Ye that witnefs the woes I endure,
Let reafon inftruct you to fhun
What it cannot inftruct you to cure.
Beware how you loiter in vain
Amid nymphs of an higher degree:
It is not for me to explain
How fair, and how fickle they be.
Alas! from the day that we met,
What hope of an end to my woes?
When I cannot endure to forget
The glance that undid my repofe.
Yet time may diminish the pain:
The flow', the fhrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleafure in vain, In time may have comfort for me.
The fweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,
The found of a murmuring ftream, The peace which from folitude flows, Henceforth fhall be Corydon's theme. High tranfports are fhown to the fight, But we are, not to find them our own; Fate never beftow'd fuch delight As I with my Phillis had known.
Oye woods, fpread your branches apace!
To your deepest recefles I fly:
I would hide with the beafts of the chace;
I would vanish from every eye.
Yet my reed shall refound through the grove,
With the fame fad complaint it begun;
How the finil'd, and I could not but love!
Was faithlefs, and I am undone!
TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ.
COME, fhepherds, we'll follow the hearfe,.
We'll fee our lov'd Corydon laid;
Though forrow may blemish the verse,
Yet let a fad tribute be paid.
They call'd him the pride of the plain,
In footh, he was gentle and kind:
He mark'd on his elegant ftrain
The graces that glow'd in his mînd.
On purpose he planted yon trees,
That birds in the covert might dwell;
He cultur'd his thyme for the bees,
But never would rifle their cell.
Ye lambkins that play'd at his feet,
Go bleat---and your master bemoan;
His mufic was artiefs and fweet,
His manners as mild as your own.
No verdure fhall cover the vale,
No bloom on the bloffoms appear;
The fweets of the forest shall fail,
And winter difcolour the year.
No birds on our hedges fhall fing
Our hedges fo vocal before),
Since the that fhould welcome the fpring
Can greet the gay feason no more.
IV.
His Paillis was fond of his praife,
And poets came round in a throng;
They liften'd-they envy'd his lays,
But which of them equal'd his fong?
Ye fhepherds, henceforward be mute, -
For loft is the pastoral strain;
So give me my Corydon's flute,
And thus let me break it in twain.
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