State Tracts Containing Many Necessary Observations and Reflections on the State of our Affairs at Home and Abroad; With some Secret Memoirs. By the Author of the Examiner [i.e. William Oldisworth] |
I. |
The Ninth Ecclogue of VIRGIL. |
State Tracts | ||
The Ninth Ecclogue of VIRGIL.
Lycidas and Mœris.Lyc.
Whither does Mœris thus uncern'dly haste?
That he pursues the Road to Rome so fast;
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'Tis much we have escap'd thus far alive;
This Day I thought not, Shepherd, to survive:
When I shou'd hear a Stranger say; This Ground,
And all these fertile Fields by me are own'd:
Begone, you Rascals, from this pleasant Farm;
Discons'late we depart, for fear of Harm.
Since Fortune over all things bears the sway,
What can remain for us but to Obey?
Two fatted Kids to the proud Rogue I bear;
That they may choak him, is my constant Pray'r.
Lyc.
I heard indeed from th'Foot of that high Hill,
That by Degrees descends to yonder Rill;
And where the dodder'd Beech hath stood so long,
Menalcus sav'd that Land with his diviner Song.
Mœr.
You heard so, and loud Fame proclaim'd it true,
But it was not our Verse alone wou'd do.
For War, O Lycidas, is more severe,
And Doves with Eagles might as well compare;
The boding Chough from an old hollow Tree
Advis'd to cease our Strife, and to agree;
Had he not taught us these dire Ills t'avoid,
Nor Mœris, nor Menalcas had his Life enjoy'd.
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Who cou'd have perpetrated such a Deed
So cruel, as to make Menalcas bleed?
Who of the Nymphs wou'd then bright Songs have made,
The fruitful Soil with flagrant Flow'rs have spread,
Or shelter Fountains with a leafy Shade?
Compose such Songs as late from thee I took,
When on our Amaryllis thou didst look,
And with her Beauty charm'd cast down thy Hook;
And said, pray feed these Goats for me, dear Swain,
And water them, I'll soon return again;
I have not far to go, howe'er take heed
Of that old Ridgling with the butting Head.
Mœr.
To Varus such like Strains he did rehearse;
Varus, whose Name's worthy immortal Verse,
If we in Mantua can but rest in Peace;
Ah! 'Tis too near Cremona for our ease:
But if thou canst preserve thy Mantuan Plains
Our Verse shall soar above the winged Swans.
Lyc.
So may thy swarms avoid the Cyrnean Yew
And Milk in Plenty from thy Heifers flow;
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The Muses lately have bestow'd on me.
I have made Verses too, to fix my Fame;
And all the Swains give me the Poets Name.
I'm not so vain to Credit what they say;
I can't yet please my self, in my own way.
Cinna nor Varus have vouchsaf'd to hear
Therefore like gabbling Geese 'mong Swans I must appear.
Mœr.
I'm thinking, Lycidas, I can rehearse,
If I remember right, a noble Verse;
Advance, fair Nymph, my Galatea hear
What Pastime is in gentle Streams, declare;
Here Flow'rs the Spring, and there the pregnant Soil,
On ev'ry Bank, does with fresh verdure smile,
Round ev'ry Flood delightful Objects rise;
White Poplar here, the naked Bow'r supplies;
And tender Vines compleat the cooling Shade,
Whilst raging Floods th'unbounded Shore invade.
Lyc.
Something I heard thee Sing alone last Night
I have the Tune, cou'd I the Words recite.
Mœr.
Why on the old Æra Daphnis dost thou pore?
Since Cæsar's Time, that Reck'ning is no more.
Tis Cæsar's Star, that makes the joyful Field,
And on the Hills the Grape her Purple yield.
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Be glad to crop, and bless the joyful Day
'Tis Time brings all things forth, we all decay;
I when a Boy consum'd a Summers Day
In Singing; but my Voice, alas! Is gone,
My Voice and tuneful Notes fled with my Song,
As if I'd seen a Wolf; but yet you can,
If you're requir'd, repeat 'em o'er again.
Lyc.
You raise my Expectation by delay,
Tho' all the Fields are peaceable and gay.
See all things now so much to rest inclin'd,
The trembling Leaves scarce feel the murm'ring Wind;
And on our Journey we are got half way,
Bianor's Tomb does now its Top display.
On these strip'd Leaves here, let us stretch a long
Here lay the Kids, and Sing a merry song.
We've time enough to reach the Town by Light,
Or if we fear the gathering Clouds e're Night,
A pleasant Song will shorten much the Road;
Come, let us Sing, I'll ease you of your Load.
Mœr.
Let's mind what we're about, dear Swain forbear;
We shall Sing better, when my Master's here.
State Tracts | ||