University of Virginia Library

A Pastoral

On the Death of his Sacred Majesty King CHARLES the Second.

Menalcas, Thyrsis and Daphnis.
Thyr.
What, sad? Menalcas: Sure this pleasant shade
Was ne're for such a mournful Tenant made.
All things smile round thee, and throughout the Grove
Nature displays a Scene of Joy and Love.
But Shepherd where's thy flock?—
Sure they in some forbidden pastures stray
Whilest here in sighs thou number'st out the day.

Men.
Ah Thyrsis, thou could'st witness heretofore
What strange Affection to my flock I bore.
Thou know'st my Thyrsis, the Arcadian Plain
Could not afford a more industrious Swain.
But I no longer now that mind retain.

Thyr.
What change so great but what Love's power can make?
Menalcas does his kids, and tender lambs forsake.
So I, when slave to Galatea's eyes,
Did neither City nor the Country prize,
But all their Sports, and my Flock too despise.
Hang thou my Pipe (said I) on yonder tree,
For then (alas) I had no tast for melody.
Obscurely in thick woods I sate alone
And sigh'd in consort to the Turtles moan.

Men.
'Tis not fond Love that causes my distress,
No Thyrsis, you'r mistaken in your guess.
The glorious Prize I have in Triumph born,
I am no longer now Alexis scorn.
Or if I were, I now could be unmoved
At every scornful glance, nor care where e're he loved.
A nearer grief preys on my spirits now,
And I beneath a heavier burthen bow.
The gentle God of the Arcadian plains
Pan that regards the sheep, Pan that regards the Swains,
Great Pan is dead—
Throughout the fields the doleful tidings ran,
A swoon seiz'd all the Shepherds at the death of Pan.
Of Pan—But see the rest that Tree will shew
Which wears the sad inscription of my woe,
Where, with the bark my sorrows too will grow.

Thyr.
How Shepherd, is it by Fames trumpet said
Than Pan the best of all the Gods is dead?
Whom oft w' adored, and whom because we knew
As good as they, we thought him as immortal too?
'Tis strange; but Omens now I find are true.
In yonder Copse a shady Oak there stood,
Stately, well rooted, and it self a wood,
Her branches o're the inferiour trees were spread,
Who all ador'd her as their soveraign head:
Hither, when heated by the guide of Day
While their young wanton goats did skip and play,
Hither the Swains would constantly repair,
Here sing, and in the ample shade drink fresher air.
This tree when I my Goats to pasture drove
While all was clear above, and still, throughout the grove.
Struck by some secret force fall down I saw,
The Wood-Nymphs all were seiz'd with wonder, grief & awe.
Nor had I left this ruin far behind
When lo (strange sight) a Nightingal I find,
Which from brisk airs enlivening all the Grove
Coo'd on a suddain like a mournful Dove.
Amaz'd I stand, and on my Pipe essay
With some brisk Song her sorrows to allay.
But all in vain. She from the lofty tree
Kept on her sad Complaint, and mourn'd, and droop'd like thee.

Men.
And why these slighter things dost thou relate?
Nature her self perceiv'd Pan's mighty fate.
She fainted, when he drew his latest breath,
And almost sympathiz'd with him to Death.
Each Field put on a languid dying face
The Sheep not minding Food, with tears bedew'd the grass.
The Lions too in tears their grief confest,
And savage Bears, Pan's Enemies profest.
The Nymphs all wept, and all the noble Train
Of Deitys that frequent the Court of Pan.
Eccho that long by nought but voice was known,
In sounds repeated others woes, but wept her own.
Th' Arcadians mourn'd, and press'd beneath the weighty care
With cruelty they charg'd the Gods and every Star.

Thyr.
And well they might; Heaven could not shew a Deity
More mild, more good t' his Votaries than he.
He was all Love, all Peace, all Clemency;
H' allur'd the Love, and melted down the hate
Of all: he had no Enemy but Fate.
Pan kept the Fields, from Wolves secur'd the Stall,
He guarded both the humbls Shrubs, and Cedars tall.
The Summers heat obey'd Pan's gentle hand,
And Winter winds blew soft at his command,
He blest the Swains with Sheep, and fruitful made their Land.
Weep Shepherds, and in pomp your grief express,
The ground with Flowers, your selves with Cypress dress.
Let the Arcadians in a solemn train
March slowly on, let mournful Accents fill the plain,
Do this at least in Memory of Pan.

Daph.
But why this vain expence of tears and breath?
D' ye think Pan lost and swallow'd up in Death?
He lives, and with a pleas'd and wondering eye
Contemplates the new Beauties of the Sky.
Whence on these fields he casts propitious rays,
Now greater than our Sorrow, greater than our Praise.
I saw (for why mayn't I rehearse the sight)
Just as the Stars were kindled by the Queen of night
Another new-made milky way appear,
I saw, and wonder'd what event it might prepare.
When lo great Pan amaz'd my trembling sight,
As through th' Æthereal plains he took his flight
Deck'd round with rays, and darting streams of light.
Triumphant was his March, a sacred throng
Of Gods inclosed him, Pan was all their Song,
The Sky still brighten'd as they went along.

Men.
Thy Vision be all truth—
But who shall now the royal Sheep-crook hold,
Who patronize the Fields, who now secure the Fold?

Daph.
Discharge that care, the royal stock does yield
Another Pan to patronize the Field.
An Heir of equal conduct does the Scepter sway,
One who long nurtured in the Pastoral way,
In peace will govern the Arcadian Plains,
Defend the tender Flocks, and chear the drooping Swains.

Thyr.
Come then, let's tune the Pipe t' a brisker Key,
Let's with a Dance our sorrows chase away,
And to new Pan in Sports devote the day.