The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve ::

Behold, Alexis, see this Gloomy Shade,
Which seems alone for Sorrow's Shelter made;
Where, no glad Beams of Light can ever play,
But Night succeeding Night, excludes the Day;

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Where, never Birds with Harmony repair,
And lightsome Notes, to cheer the Dusky Air,
To welcome Day, or bid the Sun farewel,
By Morning Lark, or Evening Philomel.

No Violet here, nor Daisie e'er was seen,
No sweetly budding Flower, nor springing Green:
For fragrant Myrtle, and the blushing Rose,
Here, baleful Yew with deadly Cypress grows.
Here then, extended on this wither'd Moss,
We'll lie, and thou shalt sing of Albion's Loss;
Of Albion's Loss, and of Pastora's Death,
Begin thy mournful Song, and raise thy tuneful Breath.

ALEXIS.

Ah Woe too great! Ah Theme, which far exceeds
The lowly Lays of humble Shepherds Reeds!

O could I sing in Verse of equal Strain,
With the Sicilian Bard, or Mantuan Swain;

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Or melting Words, and moving Numbers chuse,
Sweet as the British Colin's mourning Muse;
Could I, like him, in tuneful Grief excel,
And mourn like Stella for her Astrofel;
Then might I raise my Voice, (secure of Skill,)
And with melodious Woe the Valleys fill;
The list'ning Echo on my Song should wait,
And hollow Rocks Pastora's Name repeat;
Each whistling Wind, and murm'ring Stream should tell
How Lov'd she liv'd, and how Lamented fell.

MENALCAS.
Wert thou with ev'ry Bay and Lawrel crown'd,
And high as Pan himself in Song renown'd,
Yet would not all thy Art, avail to show
Verse worthy of her Name, or of our Woe:
But such true Passion in thy Face appears,
In thy pale Lips, thick Sighs, and gushing Tears,

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Such tender Sorrow in thy Heart I read,
As shall supply all Skill, if not exceed.
Then leave this common Form of dumb Distress,
Each vulgar Grief can Sighs and Tears express;
In sweet complaining Notes thy Passion vent,
And not in Sighs, but Words explaining Sighs, lament.

ALEXIS.

Wild be my Words, Menalcas, wild my Thought,
Artless as Nature's Notes, in Birds untaught;
Boundless my Verse, and roving be my Strains,
Various as Flow'rs on unfrequented Plains.
And thou Thalia, Darling of my Breast,
By whom inspired, I sung at Comus Feast;
While in a Ring, the Jolly Rural Throng
Have sate and smil'd to hear my chearful Song:
Begon, with all thy Mirth and sprightly Lays,
My Pipe, no longer now thy Pow'r obeys;

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Learn to lament, my Muse, to weep, and mourn,
Thy springing Lawrels, all to Cypress turn;
Wound with thy dismal Cries the tender Air,
And beat thy Snowy Breast, and rend thy yellow Hair;
Far hence, in utmost Wilds, thy Dwelling chuse,
Begon Thalia, Sorrow is my Muse.

I mourn Pastora dead, let Albion mourn,
And Sable Clouds her Chalkie Cliffs adorn.
No more, these Woods shall with her Sight be bless'd,
Nor with her Feet, these Flow'ry Plains be press'd;
No more, the Winds shall with her Tresses play,
And from her Balmy Breath steal Sweets away;
No more, these Rivers chearfully shall pass,
Pleas'd to reflect the Beauties of her Face;
While on their Banks the wondring Flocks have stood,
Greedy of Sight, and Negligent of Food.

838

No more, the Nymphs shall with soft Tales delight
Her Ears, no more with Dances please her Sight;
Nor ever more shall Swain make Song of Mirth,
To bless the Joyous Day, that gave her Birth:
Lost is that Day, which had from her its Light,
For ever lost with her, in endless Night;
In endless Night, and Arms of Death she lies,
Death in Eternal Shades has shut Pastora's Eyes.

Lament ye Nymphs, and mourn ye wretched Swains,
Stray all ye Flocks, and desart be ye Plains,
Sigh all ye Winds, and weep ye Crystal Floods,
Fade all ye Flowers, and wither all ye Woods.
I mourn Pastora dead, let Albion mourn,
And Sable Clouds her Chalkie Cliffs adorn.

Within a dismal Grott, which Damps surround,
All cold she lies upon th'unwholsom Ground;

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The Marble weeps, and with a silent Pace,
Its trickling Tears distil upon her Face.
Falsly ye weep, ye Rocks, and falsly mourn!
For never will you let the Nymph return!
With a feign'd Grief the faithless Tomb relents,
And like the Crocodile its Prey laments.

O she was heav'nly fair, in Face and Mind!
Never in Nature were such Beauties join'd:
Without, all shining; and within, all white;
Pure to the Sense, and pleasing to the Sight;
Like some rare Flow'r, whose Leaves all Colours yield,
And opening, is with sweetest Odours fill'd.
As lofty Pines o'ertop the lowly Reed,
So did her graceful Height all Nymphs exceed,
To which excelling Height, she bore a Mind
Humble, as Osiers bending to the Wind.
Thus excellent she was—

840

Ah wretched Fate! She was, but is no more.
Help me ye Hills, and Valleys, to deplore.
I mourn Pastora dead, let Albion mourn,
And Sable Clouds her Chalkie Cliffs adorn.

From that blest Earth, on which her Body lies,
May blooming Flow'rs with fragrant Sweets arise:
Let Myrrha weeping Aromatick Gum,
And ever-living Lawrel, shade her Tomb.
Thither, let all th'industrious Bees repair,
Unlade their Thighs, and leave their Hony there;
Thither, let Fairies with their Train resort,
Neglect their Revels, and their Midnight Sport,
There, in unusual Wailings waste the Night,
And watch her, by the fiery Glow-worms Light.

There, may no dismal Yew, nor Cypress grow,
Nor Holly Bush, nor bitter Elders Bow;
Let each unlucky Bird far build his Nest,
And distant Dens receive each howling Beast;

841

Let Wolves be gone, be Ravens put to flight,
With hooting Owls, and Batts that hate the Light.

But let the sighing Doves their Sorrows bring,
And Nightingales in sweet Complainings Sing;
Let Swans from their forsaken Rivers fly,
And Sick'ning at her Tomb, make haste to dye,
That they may help to sing her Elegy.
Let Echo too, in Mimick Moan, deplore,
And cry with me, Pastora is no more!
I mourn Pastora dead, let Albion mourn,
And Sable Clouds her Chalkie Cliffs adorn.

And see, the Heav'ns to weep in Dew prepare,
And heavy Mists obscure the burd'ned Air;
A sudden Damp o'er all the Plain is spread,
Each Lilly folds its Leaves, and hangs its Head.
On ev'ry Tree the Blossoms turn to Tears,
And ev'ry Bow a weeping Moisture bears.

842

Their Wings the Feather'd Airy People droop,
And Flocks beneath their dewy Fleeces stoop.

The Rocks are cleft, and new descending Rills
Furrow the Brows of all th'impending Hills.
The Water-Gods to Floods their Riv'lets turn,
And each, with streaming Eyes, supplies his wanting Urn.

The Fawns forsake the Woods, the Nymphs the Grove,
And round the Plain in sad Distractions rove;
In prickly Brakes their tender Limbs they tear,
And leave on Thorns their Locks of Golden Hair.

With their sharp Nails, themselves the Satyrs wound,
And tug their shaggy Beards, and bite with Grief the Ground.

843

Lo, Pan himself, beneath a blasted Oak
Dejected lies, his Pipe in pieces broke.
See Pales weeping too, in wild Despair,
And to the piercing Winds her Bosom bare.

And see yond fading Myrtle, where appears
The Queen of Love, all bath'd in flowing Tears,
See how she wrings her Hands, and beats her Breast,
And tears her useless Girdle from her Waste:
Hear the sad Murmurs of her sighing Doves,
For Grief they sigh, forgetful of their Loves.

Lo, Love himself, with heavy Woes opprest!
See, how his Sorrows swell his tender Breast;
His Bow he breaks, and wide his Arrows flings,
And folds his little Arms, and hangs his drooping Wings;

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Then, lays his Limbs upon the dying Grass,
And all with Tears bedews his Beauteous Face,
With Tears, which from his folded Lids arise,
And even Love himself has weeping Eyes.
All Nature mourns; the Floods and Rocks deplore,
And cry with me, Pastora is no more!
I mourn Pastora dead, let Albion mourn,
And Sable Clouds her Chalkie Cliffs adorn.

The Rocks can melt, and Air in Mists can mourn,
And Floods can weep, and Winds to Sighs can turn;
The Birds, in Songs, their Sorrows can disclose,
And Nymphs and Swains, in Words, can tell their Woes.
But oh! behold that deep and wild Despair,
Which neither Winds can show, nor Floods, nor Air.

See the Great Shepherd, Chief of all the Swains,
Lord of these Woods, and wide extended Plains,

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Stretch'd on the Ground, and close to Earth his Face,
Scalding with Tears th'already faded Grass;
To the cold Clay he joins his throbbing Breast,
No more within Pastora's Arms to rest!
No more! For those once soft and circling Arms
Themselves are Clay, and cold are all her Charms.
Cold are those Lips, which he no more must kiss,
And cold that Bosome, once all downy Bliss;
On whose soft Pillows, lull'd in sweet Delights,
He us'd, in Balmy Sleep, to lose the Nights.

Ah! where is all that Love and Fondness fled?
Ah! where is all that tender Sweetness laid?
To Dust must all that Heav'n of Beauty come!
And must Pastora moulder in the Tomb!
Ah Death! more fierce, and unrelenting far,
Than wildest Wolves or savage Tigers are;
With Lambs and Sheep their Hungers are appeas'd,
But rav'nous Death the Shepherdess has seiz'd.

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I mourn Pastora dead, let Albion mourn,
And Sable Clouds her Chalkie Cliffs adorn.

“But see, Menalcas, where a sudden Light,
“With Wonder stops my Song, and strikes my Sight!
“And where Pastora lies, it spreads around,
“Shewing all Radiant bright the Sacred Ground.
“While from her Tomb, behold a Flame ascends
“Of whitest Fire, whose Flight to Heav'n extends!
“On flaky Wings it mounts, and quick as Sight
“Cuts thro' the yielding Air, with Rays of Light;
“'Till the blue Firmament at last it gains,
“And fixing there, a glorious Star remains:
Fairest it shines of all that light the Skies,
As once on Earth were seen Pastora's Eyes.

University of Virginia Library

THE Mourning Muse OF ALEXIS.

A PASTORAL. Lamenting the Death of QUEEN MARY.