THEN O т.
Small caufe, I ween, has lufty youth to plain :
Or who may, then, the weight of eld sustain,
When every flackening nerve begins to fail,
And the load preffeth as our days prevail?
Yet, though with years my body downward tend,
As trees beneath their fruit, in autumn, bend;
Spite of my fnowy head, and icy veins,
My mind a chearful temper still retains :
And why should man, mishap what will, repine,
Sour every sweet, and mix with tears his wine?
But tell me, then it may relieve thy woe,
To let a friend thine inward ailment know.
Idly 'twill waste thee, Thenot, the whole day,
Shouldst thou give ear to all my grief can say.
Thine ewes will wander; and the heedlefs lambs,
In loud complaints, require their absent dams.
THENO т.
See Lightfoot; he shall tend them close: and I,
"Tween whiles, across the plain will glance mine eye,
COLINE T.
Where to begin I know not, where to end.
Does there one fmiling hour my youth attend!
Though few my days, as well my follies fhow,
Yet are thofe day's all clouded o'er with woe:
No happy gleam of sunshine doth appear,
My lowering fky, and wintery months, to cheer.
My piteous plight in yonder naked tree,
Which bears the thunder-fcar, too plain I fee:
Quite deftitute it stands of shelter kind,
The mark of storms, and fport of every wind:
The riven trunk feels not th' approach of spring;
Nor birds among the leafless branches fing:
No more, beneath thy fhade, fhall fhepherds throng, With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleafing fong.
Ill-fated tree! and more ill-fated I!
From thee, from me, alike the fhepherds fly.
Sure thou in hapless hour of time wast born,
When blighting mildews fpoil the rifing corn,
'Or blafting winds o'er bloffom'd hedge-rows pafs,
To kill the promis'd fruits, and fcorch the grafs,
Or when the moon, by wizard charm'd, foreshows,
Blood-ftain'd in foul eclipfe, impending woes.
Untimely born, ill-luck betides thee ftill..
And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill?:
THENо т.
Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our sheep,
From this good fhepherd's care his flock may keep : 60 Againft ill-luck, alas! all forecaft fails;
Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, avails.
Âh
me, the while! ah me, the luckless day!
Ah, luckless lad! befits me more to say.
Unhappy hour! when, fresh in youthful bud,
I left, Sabrina fair, thy filvery flood,
Ah, filly I more filly than my fheep,
Which on thy flowery banks I wont to keep.
Sweet are thy banks! Oh, when shall I, once more,
With ravish'd eyes review thine amell'd fhore?
When, in the cryftal of thy water, fcan
Each feature faded, and my colour wan
When fhall I fee my hut, the small abode
Myself did raise, and cover o'er with fod ?
Small though it be, a mean and humble cell,
Yet is there room for peace and me to dwell.
And what enticement charm'd thee, far away.
From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart aftray?
COLIN E T.
A lewd defire, strange lads and fwains to know:
Ah, God! that ever I should covet woe!
With wandering feet unbleft, and fond of fame,
I fought I know not what befides a name.
THEN O т.
Or, footh to fay, didst thou not hither roam
In fearch of gains more plenty than at home?
A rolling-stone is, ever, bare of mofs;
And, to their coft, green years old proverbs crofs.
COLINE T.
Small need there was, in random search of gain,
To drive my pining flock athwart the plain,
To diftant Cam. Fine gain at length, I trow,
To hoard up to myself such deal of woe!
My fheep quite spent, through travel and ill-fare,
And, like their keeper, ragged grown and bare,
The damp, cold greenfward, for my nightly bed,
And fome flant willow's trunk to reft my head.
Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain;
And hard is want to the unpractis'd swain :
But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard,
To blafting ftorms of calumny compar'd:
Unkind as hail it falls; the pelting shower
Deftroys the tender herb, and budding flower.
Slander we fhepherds count the vilest
And what wounds forer than an evil tongue ?
Untoward lads, the wanton imps of spite,
Make mock of all the ditties I indite.
In vain, O Colinet, thy pipe, fo fhrill,
Charms every vale, and gladdens every hill:
In vain thou seek'ft the coverings of the grove,
In the cool fhade to fing the pains of love:
Sing what thou wilt, ill-nature will prevail;
And
every elf hath skill enough to rail:
But yet, though poor and artless be my vein,
Menalcas feems to like my fimple strain :
And, while that he delighteth in my fong,
Which to the good Menalcas doth belong,
Nor night, nor day, shall my rude mufic ceafe;
I ask no more, so I Menalcas please.
Menalcas, lord of thefe fair fertile plains,
Preferves the sheep, and o'er the fhepherds reigns
For him our yearly wakes, and feasts, we hold,
And choose the fairest firstling from the fold:
He, good to all, who good deferve, shall give
Thy flock to feed, and thee at cafe to live,
Shall curb the malice of unbridled tongues,
And bounteously reward thy rural fongs.
First, then, fhall lightfome birds forget to fly,
The briny ocean turn to paftures dry,
And every rapid river ceafe to flow,
Ere I unmindful of Menalcas grow.
This night thy care with me forget; and fold
Thy flock with mine, to ward th' injurious cold.
New milk, and clouted cream, mild cheese and curd,
With fome remaining fruit of last year's hoard,
Shall be our evening fare, and, for the night,
Sweet herbs and mofs, which gentle fleep invite:
And now behold the fun's departing ray,
O'er yonder hill, the fign of ebbing day :
With fongs the jovial hinds return from plow;
And unyok'd heifers, loitering homeward, low.
HEN Virgil thought no fhame the Doric reed To tune, and flocks on Mantuan plains to feed, With young Auguftus' name he grac'd his fong: And Spenfer, when amid the rural throng
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