 | A pastoral, in imitation of the Greek of Moschus |  |
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A PASTORAL, In Imitation of the GREEK of MOSCHUS; Bewailing the DEATH OF THE Earl of ROCHESTER.
Mourn
, all ye Groves, in darker Shades be seen,
Let Groans be heard where gentle Winds have been:
Ye Albion Rivers, weep your Fountains dry,
And all ye Plants your Moisture spend and die:
Ye melancholy Flowers, which once were Men,
Lament, until you be transform'd agen,
Let every Rose pale as the Lily be,
And Winter Frost seize the Anemone:
But thou, O Hyacinth, more vigorous grow,
In mournful Letters thy sad Glory show,
Enlarge thy Grief, and flourish in thy Woe:
For Bion, the beloved Bion's dead,
His Voice is gone, his tuneful Breath is fled.
Let Groans be heard where gentle Winds have been:
Ye Albion Rivers, weep your Fountains dry,
And all ye Plants your Moisture spend and die:
Ye melancholy Flowers, which once were Men,
Lament, until you be transform'd agen,
Let every Rose pale as the Lily be,
And Winter Frost seize the Anemone:
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In mournful Letters thy sad Glory show,
Enlarge thy Grief, and flourish in thy Woe:
For Bion, the beloved Bion's dead,
His Voice is gone, his tuneful Breath is fled.
Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse,
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
Mourn, ye sweet Nightingales in the thick Woods,
Tell the sad News to all the Brittish Floods:
See it to Isis and to Cham convey'd,
To Thames, to Humber, and to utmost Tweed:
And bid them waft the bitter Tidings on,
How Bion's dead, how the lov'd Swain is gone.
And with him all the Art of graceful Song.
Tell the sad News to all the Brittish Floods:
See it to Isis and to Cham convey'd,
To Thames, to Humber, and to utmost Tweed:
And bid them waft the bitter Tidings on,
How Bion's dead, how the lov'd Swain is gone.
And with him all the Art of graceful Song.
Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse,
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
Ye gentle Swans, that haunt the Brooks and Springs,
Pine with sad grief, and droop your sickly Wings:
In doleful Notes the heavy Loss bewail,
Such as you sing at your own Funeral,
Such as you sung when your lov'd Orpheus fell.
Tell it to all the Rivers, Hills, and Plains,
Tell it to all the British Nymphs and Swains,
And bid them too the dismal Tydings spread,
Of Bion's fate, of England's Orpheus dead.
Pine with sad grief, and droop your sickly Wings:
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Such as you sing at your own Funeral,
Such as you sung when your lov'd Orpheus fell.
Tell it to all the Rivers, Hills, and Plains,
Tell it to all the British Nymphs and Swains,
And bid them too the dismal Tydings spread,
Of Bion's fate, of England's Orpheus dead.
Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse,
VVith never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
VVith never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
No more, alas! no more that lovely Swain
Charms with his tuneful Pipe the wondring Plain:
Ceast are those Lays, ceast are those sprightly Ayres,
That woo'd our Souls into our ravish'd Ears:
For which the list'ning Streams forgot to run,
And Trees lean'd their attentive Branches down:
While the glad Hills loth the sweet Sounds to lose,
Lengthen'd in Echoes ev'ry heav'nly close.
Down to the melancholy Shades he's gone,
And there to Lethe's Banks reports his moan:
Nothing is heard upon the Mountains now,
But pensive Herds that for their Master lowe:
Stragling and comfortless about they rove,
Unmindful of their Pasture, and their Love.
Charms with his tuneful Pipe the wondring Plain:
Ceast are those Lays, ceast are those sprightly Ayres,
That woo'd our Souls into our ravish'd Ears:
For which the list'ning Streams forgot to run,
And Trees lean'd their attentive Branches down:
While the glad Hills loth the sweet Sounds to lose,
Lengthen'd in Echoes ev'ry heav'nly close.
Down to the melancholy Shades he's gone,
And there to Lethe's Banks reports his moan:
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But pensive Herds that for their Master lowe:
Stragling and comfortless about they rove,
Unmindful of their Pasture, and their Love.
Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse,
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
For thee, dear Swain, for thee his much-lov'd Son,
Does Phœbus Clouds of mourning black put on:
For thee the Fairies grieve, and cease to dance,
In sportful Rings by night upon the Plains:
The Water-Nymphs alike thy absence mourn,
And all their Springs to Tears and Sorrow turn;
Sad Eccho too does in deep silence moan,
Since thou art mute, since thou art speechless grown:
She finds nought worth her pains to imitate,
Now thy sweet Breath's stopt by untimely Fate:
Trees drop their Leaves to dress thy Funeral,
And all their Fruit before its Autumn fall:
Each Flower fades, and hangs its wither'd Head,
And scorns to thrive, or live, now thou art dead:
Their bleating Flocks no more their Udders fill,
The painful Bees neglect their wonted Toil:
Alas! what boots it now their Hives to store
With the rich Spoils of ev'ry plunder'd Flower,
When thou that wast all Sweetness, art no more?
Does Phœbus Clouds of mourning black put on:
For thee the Fairies grieve, and cease to dance,
In sportful Rings by night upon the Plains:
The Water-Nymphs alike thy absence mourn,
And all their Springs to Tears and Sorrow turn;
Sad Eccho too does in deep silence moan,
Since thou art mute, since thou art speechless grown:
She finds nought worth her pains to imitate,
Now thy sweet Breath's stopt by untimely Fate:
Trees drop their Leaves to dress thy Funeral,
And all their Fruit before its Autumn fall:
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And scorns to thrive, or live, now thou art dead:
Their bleating Flocks no more their Udders fill,
The painful Bees neglect their wonted Toil:
Alas! what boots it now their Hives to store
With the rich Spoils of ev'ry plunder'd Flower,
When thou that wast all Sweetness, art no more?
Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse,
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
Ne'er did the Dolphins on the lonely Shore,
In such loud Plaints utter their Grief before:
Never in such sad Notes did Philomel
To the relenting Rocks her Sorrow tell:
Ne'er on the Beech did poor Alcyone
So weep, when she her floating Lover saw:
Nor that dead Lover, to a Sea-fold turn'd,
Upon those Waves, where he was drown'd, so mourn'd:
Nor did the Bird of Memnon with such grief
Bedew those Ashes, which late gave him Life:
As they did now with vying Grief bewail,
As they did all lament dear Bion's fall.
In such loud Plaints utter their Grief before:
Never in such sad Notes did Philomel
To the relenting Rocks her Sorrow tell:
Ne'er on the Beech did poor Alcyone
So weep, when she her floating Lover saw:
Nor that dead Lover, to a Sea-fold turn'd,
Upon those Waves, where he was drown'd, so mourn'd:
Nor did the Bird of Memnon with such grief
Bedew those Ashes, which late gave him Life:
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As they did all lament dear Bion's fall.
Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse,
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
In ev'ry Wood, on ev'ry Tree and Bush,
The Lark, the Linnet, Nightingal, and Thrush,
And all the feather'd Choir, that us'd to throng;
In list'ning Flocks to learn his well-tun'd Song;
Now each in the sad Consort bear a part,
And with kind Notes repay their Teachers Art:
Ye Turtles too (I charge you) here assist,
Let not your Murmurs in the Crowd be mist:
To the dear Swain do not ungrateful prove,
That taught you how to sing, and how to love.
The Lark, the Linnet, Nightingal, and Thrush,
And all the feather'd Choir, that us'd to throng;
In list'ning Flocks to learn his well-tun'd Song;
Now each in the sad Consort bear a part,
And with kind Notes repay their Teachers Art:
Ye Turtles too (I charge you) here assist,
Let not your Murmurs in the Crowd be mist:
To the dear Swain do not ungrateful prove,
That taught you how to sing, and how to love.
Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse,
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
Whom hast thou left behind thee, skilful Swain,
That dares aspire to reach thy matchless Strain?
Who is there after thee, that dares pretend
Rashly to take thy warbling Pipe in hand?
Thy Notes remain yet fresh in ev'ry Ear,
And give us all Delight, and all Despair:
Pleas'd Eccho still does on them meditate,
And to the whistling Reeds their sounds repeat.
Pan only e'er can equal thee in Song,
That task does only to great Pan belong:
But Pan himself perhaps will fear to try,
Will fear perhaps to be out-done by thee.
That dares aspire to reach thy matchless Strain?
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Rashly to take thy warbling Pipe in hand?
Thy Notes remain yet fresh in ev'ry Ear,
And give us all Delight, and all Despair:
Pleas'd Eccho still does on them meditate,
And to the whistling Reeds their sounds repeat.
Pan only e'er can equal thee in Song,
That task does only to great Pan belong:
But Pan himself perhaps will fear to try,
Will fear perhaps to be out-done by thee.
Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse,
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
Fair Galatea too laments thy Death,
Laments the ceasing of thy tuneful Breath:
Oft she, kind Nymph, resorted heretofore
To hear thy artful Measures from the shore:
Not harsh like the rude Cyclops were thy Lays,
Whose grating Sounds did her soft Ears displease:
Such was the force of thy enchanting Tongue,
That she for ever could have heard thy Song,
And chid the Hours that do so swiftly run,
And thought the Sun too hasty to go down,
Now does that lovely Nereid for thy sake
The Sea, and all her Fellow-Nymphs forsake.
Pensive upon the Beech, she sits alone,
And kindly tends the Flocks from which thou'rt gone.
Laments the ceasing of thy tuneful Breath:
Oft she, kind Nymph, resorted heretofore
To hear thy artful Measures from the shore:
Not harsh like the rude Cyclops were thy Lays,
Whose grating Sounds did her soft Ears displease:
Such was the force of thy enchanting Tongue,
That she for ever could have heard thy Song,
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And thought the Sun too hasty to go down,
Now does that lovely Nereid for thy sake
The Sea, and all her Fellow-Nymphs forsake.
Pensive upon the Beech, she sits alone,
And kindly tends the Flocks from which thou'rt gone.
Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse,
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
With thee, sweet Bion, all the Grace of Song,
And all the Muses boasted Art is gone:
Mute is thy Voice, which could all Hearts command,
Whose Pow'r no Shepherdess could e'er withstand:
All the soft weeping Loves about thee moan,
At once their Mother's Darling, and their own:
Dearer wast thou to Venus than her Loves,
Than her charm'd Girdle, than her faithful Doves,
Than the last gasping Kisses, which in Death
Adonis gave, and with them gave his Breath.
This, Thames, ah! this is now th'second loss,
For which in Tears thy weeping Current flows:
Spencer, the Muses Glory, went before,
He pass'd long since to the Elysian shore:
For him (they say) for him thy dear-lov'd Son,
Thy Waves did long in sobbing Murmurs groan,
Long fill'd the Sea with their Complaint, and Moan:
But now, alas! thou do'st afresh bewail,
Another Son does now thy Sorrow call:
To part with either thou alike wast loth;
Both dear to Thee, dear to the Fountains both,
He largely drank the Rills of sacred Cham,
And this no less of Isis nobler Stream:
He sung of Hero's, and of hardy Knights,
Far-fam'd in Battels, and renown'd Exploits:
This medled not with Bloody Fights, and Wars;
Pan was his Song, and Shepherds harmless Jars,
Love's peaceful Combats, and its gentle Cares.
Love ever was the subject of his Lays,
And his soft Lays did Venus ever please.
And all the Muses boasted Art is gone:
Mute is thy Voice, which could all Hearts command,
Whose Pow'r no Shepherdess could e'er withstand:
All the soft weeping Loves about thee moan,
At once their Mother's Darling, and their own:
Dearer wast thou to Venus than her Loves,
Than her charm'd Girdle, than her faithful Doves,
Than the last gasping Kisses, which in Death
Adonis gave, and with them gave his Breath.
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For which in Tears thy weeping Current flows:
Spencer, the Muses Glory, went before,
He pass'd long since to the Elysian shore:
For him (they say) for him thy dear-lov'd Son,
Thy Waves did long in sobbing Murmurs groan,
Long fill'd the Sea with their Complaint, and Moan:
But now, alas! thou do'st afresh bewail,
Another Son does now thy Sorrow call:
To part with either thou alike wast loth;
Both dear to Thee, dear to the Fountains both,
He largely drank the Rills of sacred Cham,
And this no less of Isis nobler Stream:
He sung of Hero's, and of hardy Knights,
Far-fam'd in Battels, and renown'd Exploits:
This medled not with Bloody Fights, and Wars;
Pan was his Song, and Shepherds harmless Jars,
Love's peaceful Combats, and its gentle Cares.
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And his soft Lays did Venus ever please.
Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse,
With never-fading Garland, never-dying Verse.
With never-fading Garland, never-dying Verse.
Thou, sacred Bion, art lamented more
Than all our tuneful Bards, that dy'd before:
Old Chaucer, who first taught the use of Verse,
No longer has the Tribute of our Tears:
Milton, whose Muse with such a daring Flight,
Led out the Warring Seraphims to fight:
Blest Cowley too, who on the Banks of Cham
So sweetly sigh'd his Wrongs, and told his Flame:
And He, whose Song rais'd Cooper's Hill so high,
As made its Glory with Parnassus vie:
And soft Orinda, whose bright shining Name
Stands next great Sappho's in the Ranks of Fame:
All now unwept, and unrelented pass,
And in our Grief no longer share a place:
Bion alone does all our Tears engross,
Our Tears are all too few for Bion's loss.
Than all our tuneful Bards, that dy'd before:
Old Chaucer, who first taught the use of Verse,
No longer has the Tribute of our Tears:
Milton, whose Muse with such a daring Flight,
Led out the Warring Seraphims to fight:
Blest Cowley too, who on the Banks of Cham
So sweetly sigh'd his Wrongs, and told his Flame:
And He, whose Song rais'd Cooper's Hill so high,
As made its Glory with Parnassus vie:
And soft Orinda, whose bright shining Name
Stands next great Sappho's in the Ranks of Fame:
All now unwept, and unrelented pass,
And in our Grief no longer share a place:
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Our Tears are all too few for Bion's loss.
Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse,
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
Thee all the Herdsmen mourn in gentlest Lays,
And rival one another in thy Praise:
In spreading Letters they engrave thy Name
On every Bark, that's worthy of the same:
Thy Name is warbled forth by ev'ry Tongue,
Thy Name the Burthen of each Shepherd's Song:
VValler, the sweet'st of living Bards, prepares
For thee his tendrest, and his mournfull'st Ayres,
And I, the meanest of the British Swains,
Amongst the rest offer these humble Strains:
If I am reckon'd not unblest in Song,
'Tis what I owe to thy all-teaching Tongue:
Some of thy Art, some of thy tuneful Breath,
Thou didst by Will to worthless me bequeath:
Others thy Flocks, thy Lands, thy Riches have,
To me thou didst thy Pipe, and Skill vouchsafe.
And rival one another in thy Praise:
In spreading Letters they engrave thy Name
On every Bark, that's worthy of the same:
Thy Name is warbled forth by ev'ry Tongue,
Thy Name the Burthen of each Shepherd's Song:
VValler, the sweet'st of living Bards, prepares
For thee his tendrest, and his mournfull'st Ayres,
And I, the meanest of the British Swains,
Amongst the rest offer these humble Strains:
If I am reckon'd not unblest in Song,
'Tis what I owe to thy all-teaching Tongue:
Some of thy Art, some of thy tuneful Breath,
Thou didst by Will to worthless me bequeath:
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To me thou didst thy Pipe, and Skill vouchsafe.
Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse,
VVith never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
VVith never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
Alas! by what ill Fate, to Man unkind,
Were we to so severe a Lot design'd?
The meanest Flowers which the Gardens yield,
The vilest Weeds that flourish in the Field,
Which must ere long lie dead in Winter's Snow,
Shall spring again, again more vigorous grow:
Yon Sun, and this bright Glory of the Day,
Which Night is hasting now to snatch away,
Shall rise anew more shining and more gay:
But wretched we must harder measure find,
The great'st, the brav'st, the witti'st of Mankind,
When Death has once put out their light, in vain
Ever expect the dawn of Life again:
In the dark Grave insensible they lie,
And there sleep out endless Eternity.
There thou to silence ever art confin'd,
While less deserving Swains are left behind:
So please the Fates to deal with us below,
They cull out thee, and let dull Mævius go:
Mævius still lives; still let him live for me,
He, and his Pipe shall ne'er my Envy be:
None e'er that heard thy sweet, thy artful Tongue,
Will grate their Ears with his rough untun'd Song.
Were we to so severe a Lot design'd?
The meanest Flowers which the Gardens yield,
The vilest Weeds that flourish in the Field,
Which must ere long lie dead in Winter's Snow,
Shall spring again, again more vigorous grow:
Yon Sun, and this bright Glory of the Day,
Which Night is hasting now to snatch away,
Shall rise anew more shining and more gay:
But wretched we must harder measure find,
The great'st, the brav'st, the witti'st of Mankind,
When Death has once put out their light, in vain
Ever expect the dawn of Life again:
In the dark Grave insensible they lie,
And there sleep out endless Eternity.
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While less deserving Swains are left behind:
So please the Fates to deal with us below,
They cull out thee, and let dull Mævius go:
Mævius still lives; still let him live for me,
He, and his Pipe shall ne'er my Envy be:
None e'er that heard thy sweet, thy artful Tongue,
Will grate their Ears with his rough untun'd Song.
Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse,
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse.
A fierce Disease, sent by ungentle Death,
Snatch'd Bion hence, and stopp'd his hallow'd Breath:
A fatal Damp put out that heav'nly Fire,
That sacred Heat which did his Breast inspire;
Ah! what malignant Ill could boast that Pow'r,
Which his sweet Voice's Magick could not cure?
Ah, cruel Fate! how could'st thou chuse but spare?
How could'st thou exercise thy Rigour here?
Would thou hadst thrown thy Dart at worthless me,
And let his dear, his valu'd Life go free:
Better ten thousand meaner Swains had dy'd,
Than this best Work of Nature been destroy'd.
Snatch'd Bion hence, and stopp'd his hallow'd Breath:
A fatal Damp put out that heav'nly Fire,
That sacred Heat which did his Breast inspire;
Ah! what malignant Ill could boast that Pow'r,
Which his sweet Voice's Magick could not cure?
Ah, cruel Fate! how could'st thou chuse but spare?
How could'st thou exercise thy Rigour here?
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And let his dear, his valu'd Life go free:
Better ten thousand meaner Swains had dy'd,
Than this best Work of Nature been destroy'd.
Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse,
With never-dying Garlands, never-dying Verse.
With never-dying Garlands, never-dying Verse.
Ah! would kind Death alike had sent me bence;
But Grief shall do the Work, and save its pains;
Grief shall accomplish my desired Doom,
And soon dispatch me to Elysium:
There, Bion, would I be, there gladly know,
How with thy Voice thou charm'st the Shades below.
Sing, Shepherd, sing one of thy Strains divine,
Such as may melt the fierce Elysian Queen:
She once her self was pleas'd with tuneful Strains:
And sung and danc'd on the Sicilian Plains:
Fear not thy Song should unsuccessful prove,
Fear not but 'twill the pitying Goddess move:
She once was won by Orpheus heav'nly Lays,
And gave his fair Eurydice release.
And thine as pow'rful (question not, dear Swain)
Shall bring thee back to these glad Hills again.
Ev'n I my self, did I at all excell,
Would try the utmost of my Voice and Skill,
Would try to move the rigid King of Hell.
But Grief shall do the Work, and save its pains;
Grief shall accomplish my desired Doom,
And soon dispatch me to Elysium:
There, Bion, would I be, there gladly know,
How with thy Voice thou charm'st the Shades below.
Sing, Shepherd, sing one of thy Strains divine,
Such as may melt the fierce Elysian Queen:
She once her self was pleas'd with tuneful Strains:
And sung and danc'd on the Sicilian Plains:
Fear not thy Song should unsuccessful prove,
Fear not but 'twill the pitying Goddess move:
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And gave his fair Eurydice release.
And thine as pow'rful (question not, dear Swain)
Shall bring thee back to these glad Hills again.
Ev'n I my self, did I at all excell,
Would try the utmost of my Voice and Skill,
Would try to move the rigid King of Hell.
| A pastoral, in imitation of the Greek of Moschus | |