Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Beneath an hawthorn bush, secreted shade,
The herdsman, Diggon, doleful ply'd his spade;
The deep'ning grave conceal'd him to the head;
Near him his cow, his favourite cow, lay dead:
When o'er the neighb'ring stile a shepherd came,
The herdsman's friend, and Colin was his name:
Touch'd with the sight, the kind and guileless swain,
Sigh'd, shook his head, and thus express'd his pain.

COLIN.
How! Mully gone!—the sad mischance I rue!
Ah! wretched Diggon, but more wretched Sue!

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DIGGON.
How could I hope, where such contagion reigns,
Where one wide ruin sweeps the desart plains;
Where every gale contains the seeds of death,
That Diggon's kine should draw untainted breath?
Vain hope, alas! if such my heart had known,
Since Mully's gone, the last of all my own.
No more shall Susan skim the milky stream,
No more the cheese-curd press, or churn the cream;
No more the dairy shall my steps invite,
So late the source of plenty and delight:
Thither no more with Susan shall I stray,
Nor from her cleanly hands receive the whey.
Sad plight is ours! nor ours alone; for all
Mourn the still meadow, and deserted stall.

COLIN.
But have you, Diggon, all those methods try'd,
By book-learn'd doctors taught, when cattle dy'd?
Or, tho' no doctor's remedies prevail,
Does the good bishop's fam'd tar-water fail?

DIGGON.
Each art I try'd, did all that man could do;
Med'cines I gave, like poison med'cines slew:

262

The bishop's drink, which snatch'd mefrom the grave,
Giv'n to my cow, forgot its power to save.
The dire disease increas'd by swift degrees,
Till death freed Mully; death! which all things frees.

COLIN.
I would not, Diggon, now your grief renew,
Yet wish to hear her sickness trac'd by you;
How first it seiz'd her, and what change its rage
Relentless wrought in each successive stage.

DIGGON.
Dejected first she hung her drooping head,
Refus'd her meat, and from her pasture fled;
Then dull and languid seem'd her plaintive eye,
Her breath grew noisome, and her udder dry.

263

Erst sweet that breath as morning gales in May,
And full that udder as of light the day.
Scorch'd with perpetual thirst, short sighs she drew,
Furr'd was her tongue, and to her mouth it grew:
Her burning nostrils putrid rheums distill'd,
And death's strong agonies her bowels fill'd;
Each limb contracted, and a groan each breath,
Lost ease I wish'd her, and it came in death:
Cast out, infected, and abhorr'd by all;
See how the useful, and the beauteous fall!
Not ev'n her skin—when living, sleek and red,
Can aught avail me, Colin, now she's dead.

COLIN.
May heav'n, relenting, happier days bestow,
Suspend the rod, and smile away our woe!
But if in justice for our crimes we smart,
If with affliction heav'n corrects the heart,
'Tis ours, submissive to receive the stroke,
Since to repine is only to provoke.

DIGGON.
Hard is the task from murmurs to refrain,
Ev'n blessings past increase the present pain.
Once in these vales my lowing herds were fed,
My table plenty crown'd, and peace my bed;
My jocund pipe then tun'd to amorous lays,
A kiss repaid me for a lover's praise.
Blest times, farewell! no more those herds are found,
No more my table is with plenty crown'd;
No more my bed the sleep of peace bestows,
No more my jocund strain melodious flows:

264

A lover's praise a kiss rewards no more,
Joy spreads his wanton wings, and leaves the shore:
Pale want remains, with all her meagre train,
And only sighs are echoed o'er the plain.
—Far hence I'll fly, this rustic garb foregoe,
And march in red, a soldier to the foe:
The French, whose bosoms Papish plots conceal,
My hand, made heavy by distress, shall feel;
On Flander's plains I'll lose domestic care,
Desperate thro' want, and mighty thro' despair.
And there, if heav'n at length my labours crown,
I'll sow false Frenchmen, and I'll reap renown.
Susan, farewell!—

COLIN.
—'Sdeath! yonder o'er the mead
The squire's curs'd mastiff scours with headlong speed!
See how my flock in wild confusion flies—
Zooks, if I catch him—by this hand he dies.

This pastoral was first written and published in the year 1747, when the distemper reigned amongst the horned cattle; and with a view to satisfy a friend that Virgil had accurately described the same malady.