A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes

Hear, Doddington, the notes that shepherds sing,
Notes soft as those of nightingales in spring:
Nor Pan, nor Phœbus tune the shepherd's reed:
From Love alone our tender lays proceed:
Love warms our fancy with enliv'ning fires,
Refines our genius, and our verse inspires:
From him Theocritus, on Enna's plains,
Learnt the wild sweetness of his Doric strains;
Virgil by him was taught the moving art,
That charm'd each ear, and soften'd ev'ry heart:
O would'st thou quit the pride of courts, and deign
To dwell with us upon the vocal plain,
Thee too his pow'r should reach, and ev'ry shade
Resound the praises of thy fav'rite maid;
Thy pipe our rural concert wou'd improve,
And we should learn of thee to please and love.

Damon no longer sought the silent shade,
No more in unfrequented paths he stray'd,
But call'd the nymphs to hear his jocund song,
And told his joy to all the rustic throng.

Blest be the hour, he said, that happy hour,
When first I own'd my Delia's gentle pow'r;
Then gloomy Discontent and pining Care
Forsook my breast, and left soft wishes there:
Soft wishes there they left, and gay desires,
Delightful languors, and transporting fires.
Where yonder limes combine to form a shade,
These eyes first gaz'd upon the charming maid;
There she appear'd, on that auspicious day,
When swains their sportive rites to Bacchus pay:
She led the dance—heav'ns! with what grace she mov'd!
Who cou'd have seen her then, and not have lov'd?
I strove not to resist so sweet a flame,
But glory'd in a happy captive's name;
Nor wou'd I now, cou'd Love permit, be free,
But leave to brutes their savage liberty.

And art thou then, fond swain, secure of joy?
Can no reverse thy flattering bliss destroy?
Has treach'rous Love no torment yet in store?
Or hast thou never prov'd his fatal pow'r?
Whence flow'd those tears that late bedew'd thy cheek?
Why sigh'd thy heart as if it strove to break?
Why were the desart rocks invok'd to hear
The plaintive accents of thy sad despair?
From Delia's rigour all those pains arose,
Delia, who now compassionates my woes,
Who bids me hope; and in that charming word
Has peace and transport to my soul restor'd.

Begin, my pipe, begin the gladsome lay;
A kiss from Delia shall thy musick pay;
A kiss obtain'd 'twixt struggling and consent,
Giv'n with forc'd anger, and disguis'd content:
No laureat wreaths I ask to bind my brows,
Such as the Muse on lofy bards bestows;
Let other swains to praise or fame aspire:
I from her lips my recompence require.

Hark how the bees with murmurs fill the plain,
While ev'ry flow'r of ev'ry sweet they drain:
See, how beneath yon hillock's shady steep,
The shelter'd herds on flow'ry couches sleep;
Nor bees, nor herds, are half so blest as I,
If with my fond desires my Love comply:
From Delia's lips a sweeter honey flows,
And on her bosom dwells more soft repose.

Ah how, my dear, shall I deserve thy charms?
What gift can bribe thee to my longing arms?
A bird for thee in silken bands I hold,
Whose yellow plumage shines like polish'd gold;
From distant isles the lovely stranger came,
And bears the Fortunate Canaries name;
In all our woods none boasts so sweet a note,
Not even the nightingale's melodious throat.
Accept of this; and cou'd I add beside
What wealth the rich Peruvian mountains hide;
If all the gems in Eastern rocks were mine,
On thee alone their glitt'ring pride shou'd shine.

But if thy mind no gifts have pow'r to move,
Phœbus himself shall leave th'Aonian grove;
The tuneful Nine, who never sue in vain,
Shall come sweet suppliants for their fav'rite swain.
For him each blue-ey'd Naiad of the flood,
For him each green-hair'd sister of the wood,
Whom oft beneath fair Cynthia's gentle ray
His musick calls to dance the night away.
And you, fair nymphs, companions of my Love;
With whom she joys the cowslip meads to rove,
I beg you recommend my faithful flame,
And let her often hear her shepherd's name;
Shade all my faults from her enquiring sight,
And shew my merits in the fairest light;
My pipe your kind assistance shall repay,
And ev'ry friend shall claim a diff'rent lay.

But see! in yonder glade the heav'nly fair
Enjoys the fragrance of the breezy air—
Ah, thither let me fly with eager feet;
Adieu, my pipe, I go my Love to meet—
O may I find her as we parted last,
And may each future hour be like the past!
So shall the whitest lamb these pastures feed,
Propitious Venus, on thy altars bleed.

University of Virginia Library

HOPE. Eclogue II.