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Pastoral Eclogues.
Eclogue I.
Daphne.Sicilian Muse, my humble Voice inspire
To sing of Daphne's Charms and Damon's Fire.
Long had the faithful Swain supprest his Grief,
And since he durst not hope, ne'er askt relief.
But at th'arrival of the fatal Day
That took the Nymph and all his Joys away;
With dying Looks he gaz'd upon the Fair,
And what his Tongue could not, his Eyes declare:
Till with deep Sighs, as if his Heart-strings broke,
Pressing her Hand, these tender Things he spoke:
Damon.
Ah lovely Nymph! behold your Lover burn,
And view that Passion which you'll not return.
As no Nymphs Charms did ever equal thine;
So no Swain's Love did ever equal mine.
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Might I but sacrifice my self for thee?
Cou'd I but please thee with my dying Verse,
And make thee shed one Tear upon my Hearse?
Daphne.
Too free an Offer of that Love you make,
Which now, alas, I have not pow'r to take:
Your Wounds I cannot, tho' I wou'd, relieve:
Phaon has all the Love that I can give.
Had you among the rest at first assail'd
My Heart, when free, you had perhaps prevail'd.
Now if you blame, Oh blame not me, but Fate,
That never brought you till 'twas grown too late.
Damon.
Had the Fates brought me then, too charming Fair,
I could not hope, and now I must despair.
Rul'd by your Friends, you quit the Lovers Flame
For Flocks, for Pastures, for an empty Name.
Yet tho' the blest Possession Fate denies;
Oh let me gaze for ever on those Eyes.
So just, so true, so innocent's my Flame,
That Phaon did he see it, cou'd not blame.
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Such generous Ends I know you still pursue,
What I can do, be sure I will for you.
If on Esteem, or Pity you can live,
Or Hopes of more, if I had more to give;
Those you may have, but cannot have my Heart:
And since we now perhaps for ever part;
Such noble Thoughts through all your life express,
May make the Value more, the Pity less.
Damon.
Can you then go? Can you for ever part
(Ye Gods! what shivering Pains surround my Heart!)
And have one Thought to make your Pity less?
Ah Daphne, cou'd I half my Pangs express,
You cou'd not think, tho' hard as Rocks you were,
Your Pity ever cou'd too great appear.
I ne'er shall be one Moment free from pain,
Till I behold those charming Eyes again.
When gay Diversions do your Thoughts employ,
I wou'd not come to interrupt the Joy:
But when from them you some spare Moment find,
Think then, oh think on whom you leave behind!
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Where I so oft those charming Eyes have seen!
Think with what Grief I walk the Groves alone,
When You, the Glory of them all, are gone!
Yet, oh! that little time you have to stay,
Let me still speak, and gaze my Soul away!
But see, my Passion that small Aid denies;
Grief stops my Tongue, and Tears o'erflow my Eyes.
Eclogue II.
Galatea.
Thyrsis
, the gaiest one of all the Swains,
Who fed their Flocks upon th'Arcadian Plains;
While Love's mad Passion quite devour'd his Heart,
And the coy Nymph that caus'd neglects his Smart;
Strives in low Numbers, such as Shepherds use,
If not to move her Breast, his own amuse.
You, Chloris, who with scorn refuse to see
The mighty Wounds that you have made on me;
Yet cannot sure with equal Pride disdain,
To hear an humble Hind of his complain.
Who fed their Flocks upon th'Arcadian Plains;
While Love's mad Passion quite devour'd his Heart,
And the coy Nymph that caus'd neglects his Smart;
Strives in low Numbers, such as Shepherds use,
If not to move her Breast, his own amuse.
You, Chloris, who with scorn refuse to see
The mighty Wounds that you have made on me;
Yet cannot sure with equal Pride disdain,
To hear an humble Hind of his complain.
Now while the Flocks and Herds to Shades retire,
While the fierce Sun sets all the World on fire;
Through burning Fields, through rugged Brakes I rove,
And to the Hills and Woods declare my Love.
How small's the Heat? how easie is the Pain
I feel without, to that I feel within?
While the fierce Sun sets all the World on fire;
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And to the Hills and Woods declare my Love.
How small's the Heat? how easie is the Pain
I feel without, to that I feel within?
Yet scornful Galatea will not hear,
But from my Songs and Pipe still turns her Ear.
Not so the sage Corisca, nor the fair
Climena, nor rich Ægon's only Care:
From them my Songs a just Compassion drew,
And they shall have them, since contemn'd by you.
But from my Songs and Pipe still turns her Ear.
Not so the sage Corisca, nor the fair
Climena, nor rich Ægon's only Care:
From them my Songs a just Compassion drew,
And they shall have them, since contemn'd by you.
Why name I them, when ev'n chaste Cynthia stays,
And Pan himself, to listen to my Lays?
Pan, whose sweet Pipe has been admir'd so long,
Has not disdain'd sometimes to hear my Song.
Yet Galatea Scorns whate'er I say;
And Galatea's wiser sure than they.
And Pan himself, to listen to my Lays?
Pan, whose sweet Pipe has been admir'd so long,
Has not disdain'd sometimes to hear my Song.
Yet Galatea Scorns whate'er I say;
And Galatea's wiser sure than they.
Relentless Nymph! can nothing move your Mind?
Must you be deaf, because you are unkind?
Tho' you dislike the Subject of my Lays,
Yet sure the Sweetness of my Voice might please.
It is not thus that you dull Mopsus use,
His Songs divert you, tho' you mine refuse.
Yet I cou'd tell you, fair One, if I wou'd,
(And since you treat me thus, methinks I shou'd)
What the wise Lycon said, when in yon Plain,
He saw him court in hope, and me in vain;
Forbear, fond Youth, to chase a heedless Fair,
Nor think with well-tun'd Verse to please her Ear;
Seek out some other Nymph, nor e'er repine,
That one who likes his Songs, shou'd fly from thine.
Must you be deaf, because you are unkind?
Tho' you dislike the Subject of my Lays,
Yet sure the Sweetness of my Voice might please.
It is not thus that you dull Mopsus use,
His Songs divert you, tho' you mine refuse.
Yet I cou'd tell you, fair One, if I wou'd,
(And since you treat me thus, methinks I shou'd)
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He saw him court in hope, and me in vain;
Forbear, fond Youth, to chase a heedless Fair,
Nor think with well-tun'd Verse to please her Ear;
Seek out some other Nymph, nor e'er repine,
That one who likes his Songs, shou'd fly from thine.
Ah, Lycon! ah! your Rage false Dangers forms;
'Tis not his Songs, but 'tis his Fortune Charms:
Yet, scornful Maid, in time you'll find those Toys
Can yield no real, no substantial Joys;
In vain his Wealth, his Titles gain esteem,
If for all that you are asham'd of Him.
'Tis not his Songs, but 'tis his Fortune Charms:
Yet, scornful Maid, in time you'll find those Toys
Can yield no real, no substantial Joys;
In vain his Wealth, his Titles gain esteem,
If for all that you are asham'd of Him.
Ah, Galatea, wou'dst thou turn those Eyes,
Wou'dst thou but once vouchsafe to hear my Cries:
In such soft Notes I wou'd my Pains impart,
As cou'd not fail to move thy rocky Heart;
With such sweet Songs I wou'd thy Fame make known,
As Pan himself might not disdain to own.
Oh cou'dst thou, fair One, but contented be
To tend the Sheep, and chase the Hares with me;
To have thy Praises eccho'd through the Groves,
And pass thy Days with one who truly loves;
Nor let those gaudy Toys thy Heart surprize,
Which the Fools envy, and the Sage despise.
Wou'dst thou but once vouchsafe to hear my Cries:
In such soft Notes I wou'd my Pains impart,
As cou'd not fail to move thy rocky Heart;
With such sweet Songs I wou'd thy Fame make known,
As Pan himself might not disdain to own.
Oh cou'dst thou, fair One, but contented be
To tend the Sheep, and chase the Hares with me;
To have thy Praises eccho'd through the Groves,
And pass thy Days with one who truly loves;
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Which the Fools envy, and the Sage despise.
But Galatea Scorns my humble Flame,
And neither asks my Fortune, nor my Name.
Of the best Cheese my well-stor'd Dairy's full,
And my soft Sheep produce the finest Wool;
The richest Wines of Greece my Vineyard's yield,
And smiling Crops of Grain adorn my Field.
And neither asks my Fortune, nor my Name.
Of the best Cheese my well-stor'd Dairy's full,
And my soft Sheep produce the finest Wool;
The richest Wines of Greece my Vineyard's yield,
And smiling Crops of Grain adorn my Field.
Ah, foolish Youth! in vain thou boast'st thy store,
Have what thou wilt, if Mopsus still has more.
See whilst thou sing'st, behold her haughty Pride,
With what disdain she turns her Head aside!
Oh, why wou'd Nature, to our Ruine, place
A Tyger's Heart, with such an Angel's Face?
Have what thou wilt, if Mopsus still has more.
See whilst thou sing'st, behold her haughty Pride,
With what disdain she turns her Head aside!
Oh, why wou'd Nature, to our Ruine, place
A Tyger's Heart, with such an Angel's Face?
Cease, Shepherd, cease, at last thy fruitless Moan;
Nor hope to gain a Heart already gone.
While Rocks and Caves thy tuneful Notes resound,
See how thy Corn lies wither'd on the Ground!
The hungry Wolves devours thy fatten'd Lambs;
And bleating for the Young, makes lean the Damms.
Take, Shepherd, take thy Hook, thy Flocks pursue,
And when one Nymph proves cruel, find a new.
Nor hope to gain a Heart already gone.
While Rocks and Caves thy tuneful Notes resound,
See how thy Corn lies wither'd on the Ground!
The hungry Wolves devours thy fatten'd Lambs;
And bleating for the Young, makes lean the Damms.
Take, Shepherd, take thy Hook, thy Flocks pursue,
And when one Nymph proves cruel, find a new.
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Eclogue III.
Damon.
Arise, O Phosphorus! and bring the Day,
While I in Sighs and Tears consume away;
Deceiv'd with flattering Hopes of Nisa's Love;
And to the Gods my vain Petitions move:
Tho' they've done nothing to prevent my Death,
I'll yet invoke 'em with my dying Breath.
Begin, my Muse, begin th'Arcadian Strains.
While I in Sighs and Tears consume away;
Deceiv'd with flattering Hopes of Nisa's Love;
And to the Gods my vain Petitions move:
Tho' they've done nothing to prevent my Death,
I'll yet invoke 'em with my dying Breath.
Begin, my Muse, begin th'Arcadian Strains.
Arcadia's famous for its spacious Plains,
Its whistling Pine-Trees, and its shady Groves,
And often hears the Swains lament their Loves.
Great Pan upon its Mountains feeds his Goats,
Who first taught Reeds to warble Rural Notes.
Begin, my Muse, begin th'Arcadian Strains.
Its whistling Pine-Trees, and its shady Groves,
And often hears the Swains lament their Loves.
Great Pan upon its Mountains feeds his Goats,
Who first taught Reeds to warble Rural Notes.
Begin, my Muse, begin th'Arcadian Strains.
Mopsus weds Nisa! Oh, well-suited Pair!
When he succeeds, what Lover can despair?
After this Match, let Mares and Griffins breed;
And Hounds with Hares in friendly consort feed.
Go, Mopsus, go; provide the Bridal Cake;
And to thy Bed the blooming Virgin take:
In her soft Arms thou shalt securely rest.
Behold, the Evening comes to make thee blest!
Begin, my Muse, begin th'Arcadian Strains.
When he succeeds, what Lover can despair?
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And Hounds with Hares in friendly consort feed.
Go, Mopsus, go; provide the Bridal Cake;
And to thy Bed the blooming Virgin take:
In her soft Arms thou shalt securely rest.
Behold, the Evening comes to make thee blest!
Begin, my Muse, begin th'Arcadian Strains.
Oh, Nisa, happy in a lovely Choice!
While you with scorn neglect my Pipe and Voice;
While you despise my humble Songs, my Herd,
My shaggy Eye-brows, and my rugged Beard;
While through the Plains disdainfully you move,
And think no Shepherd can deserve your Love;
Mopsus alone can the nice Virgin win,
With charming Person, and with graceful Mien.
Begin, my Muse, begin th'Arcadian Strains.
While you with scorn neglect my Pipe and Voice;
While you despise my humble Songs, my Herd,
My shaggy Eye-brows, and my rugged Beard;
While through the Plains disdainfully you move,
And think no Shepherd can deserve your Love;
Mopsus alone can the nice Virgin win,
With charming Person, and with graceful Mien.
Begin, my Muse, begin th'Arcadian Strains.
When first I saw you on those fatal Plains,
I reach'd you Fruit; your Mother too was there;
Scarce had you seen the thirteenth Spring appear:
Yet Beauty's Buds were opening in your Face;
I gaz'd, and Blushes did your Charms encrease.
'Tis Love, thought I, that's rising in her Breast;
Alas, your Passion, by my own, I guest;
Then upon trust I fed the raging Pains.
Begin, my Muse, begin th'Arcadian Strains.
I reach'd you Fruit; your Mother too was there;
Scarce had you seen the thirteenth Spring appear:
Yet Beauty's Buds were opening in your Face;
I gaz'd, and Blushes did your Charms encrease.
'Tis Love, thought I, that's rising in her Breast;
Alas, your Passion, by my own, I guest;
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Begin, my Muse, begin th'Arcadian Strains.
Oh, Love! I know thee now; thou ow'st thy Birth
To Rocks; some craggy Mountain brought thee forth:
Nor is it Humane Blood that fills thy Veins,
Begin, my Muse, begin th'Arcadian Strains.
To Rocks; some craggy Mountain brought thee forth:
Nor is it Humane Blood that fills thy Veins,
Begin, my Muse, begin th'Arcadian Strains.
Relentless Love to bold Medea show'd,
To stain her guilty Hands in Children's Blood.
Was she more cruel, or more wicked he?
He was a wicked Counsellor, a cruel Mother she.
Begin, my Muse, begin th'Arcadian Strains.
To stain her guilty Hands in Children's Blood.
Was she more cruel, or more wicked he?
He was a wicked Counsellor, a cruel Mother she.
Begin, my Muse, begin th'Arcadian Strains.
Now let the Scriech-Owls vie with warbling Swans;
Upon hard Oaks let blushing Peaches grow,
And from the Brambles, liquid Amber flow.
The harmless Wolves, the rav'nous Sheep shall shun;
And valiant Deer, at fearful Grey-hounds run:
Let the Sea rise, and overflow the Plains.
Begin, my Muse, begin th'Arcadian Strains.
Upon hard Oaks let blushing Peaches grow,
And from the Brambles, liquid Amber flow.
The harmless Wolves, the rav'nous Sheep shall shun;
And valiant Deer, at fearful Grey-hounds run:
Let the Sea rise, and overflow the Plains.
Begin, my Muse, begin th'Arcadian Strains.
Adieu, ye Flocks, no more shall I pursue!
Adieu, ye Groves, a long, a long Adieu!
And you, coy Nymph, who all my Vows disdain,
Take this last Present from a dying Swain.
Since you dislike whate'er in Life I said,
You may be pleas'd, perhaps, to hear I'm dead:
This Leap shall put an end to all my Pains.
Now cease, my Muse, now cease th'Arcadian Strains.
Adieu, ye Groves, a long, a long Adieu!
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Take this last Present from a dying Swain.
Since you dislike whate'er in Life I said,
You may be pleas'd, perhaps, to hear I'm dead:
This Leap shall put an end to all my Pains.
Now cease, my Muse, now cease th'Arcadian Strains.
Thus Damon sung while on the Cliff he stood,
Then headlong plung'd into the raging Flood.
All with united Grief the Loss bemoan,
Except the Authress of his Fate alone,
Who hears it with an unrelenting Breast.
Ah, cruel Nymph! forbear your Scorns at last.
How much soe'er you may the Love despise,
'Tis barb'rous to insult on one that dies.
Then headlong plung'd into the raging Flood.
All with united Grief the Loss bemoan,
Except the Authress of his Fate alone,
Who hears it with an unrelenting Breast.
Ah, cruel Nymph! forbear your Scorns at last.
How much soe'er you may the Love despise,
'Tis barb'rous to insult on one that dies.
FINIS.
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