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Thro' rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds;
lay, And cease, ye gales, to bear my fighs away!
Next Agon sung, while Windfor groves admir'd; Rehearse, ye Muses, what youríelves inspir’d.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! Of perjur'd Doris, dying I complain: Here where the mountains, lefs'ning as they rise, Lose the low yales, and iteal into the kies; 60 While lab'ring oxen, spent with toil and heat, In their loose traces from the field retreat: While curling smoaks from village-tops are seen, And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.
Refound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! 6; Beneath yon' popląr oft we past the day : Oft' on the rind I carv'd her am'rous vows, While she with garlands hung the bending boughs: The garlands fade, the vows are worn away; So dies her love, and so my hopes decay. 70
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain, Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine, And grateful cluiters swell with floods of wine ;
VER. 52. An qui amant, ipîi fibi fomnia fingunt ? Id. vii,
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove ; 75
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
eyes but hers, alas, have pow'r to move ! And is there magic but what dwells in love! 84
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains !
Refound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Thus sung the lhepherds till th’approach of night,
Ncfcio quis teneros oculus mihi fascinat agnos.
Is not so mournful as the strains
Mrs. Tempeft.] This Lady was of an ancient family in Yorkshire, and particularly admired by the Author's friend Mr. Walth, who, having celebrated her in a Pastoral Elegy, defired
IMITATIONS, Ver. 1. Thyrfis, the music, etc.] ‘Ad Ti, etc. Theocr, Idyl, i.
Now sleeping flocks on their soft fleeces lie,
S The moon, serene in glory, mounts the sky, While silent birds forget their tuneful lays, Oh fing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's praise !
TH Y RSI S.
L Y CIDAS.
his friend to do the same, as appears from one of his Letters, dated Sept. 9, 1706.
“ Your last Eclogue being on the same “ subject with mine on Mrs. Tempest's death, I should take it
very kindly in you to give it a little turn, as if it were to “ the memory of the same lady.” Her death having happened on the night of the great storm in 1703, gave a propriety to this eclogue, which in its general turn alludes to it. The scene of the Pastoral lies in a grove, the time at midnight.
Audiit Eurotas, jusitque cdiscere lauros. Virg.