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Refound ye hills, refound my mournful strain ! Of perjur'd Doris, dying I complain : Here where the mountains, less’ning as they rife, Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies ; While lab’ring oxen, fpent with toil and heat, In their loose traces from the field retreat ; While curling fmoaks from village-tops are feen, And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green. Refound ye hills, refound my mournful lay ! Beneath yon poplar oft we pass'd the day : Oft on the rind I carv'd her am 'rous vows, While she with garlands hung the bending boughs : The garlands fade, the boughs are worn away ; So dies her love, and fo my hopes decay. Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strain ! Now bright Aréfurus glads the teeming grain ; Now golden fruits in loaded branches shine, And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine; Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove : Just Gods ! shall all things yield returns but love ? Resound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay ! The shepherds cry, “ Thy flocks are left a prey.”– Ah ! what avails it me the flocks to keep, Who lost my heart, while I preserv'd my sheep, Pan come, and ask'd, what magic caus'd my fmart, Or what ili eyes malignant glances dart ? What eyes but hers, alas ! have pow'r to move ? And is there magic but what dwells in love ? Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strains ! I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flow'ry plains.– From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove, Forsake mankind, and all the world-but love ! I know thee, love ! wild as the raging main, More fell than Tygers on the Libyan plain : Thou wert from ŽEtna’s burning entrails torn, Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born, Resound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay ! Farewel, ye woods, adieu the light of day ! One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains. No more, ye hills, no more refound my strains ! Thus fung the shepherds, till th'approach of night, The skies yet blushing with departing light, - F 4

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When falling dews with fpangles deck'd the glade,
And the low fun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade.

To these Pastorals, which are written agreeably to the tafte of antiquity, and the rules above prefcrib’d, we shall beg leave to subjoin another that may be called a burlesque Pastoral, wherein the ingenious author, the late Mr. Gay, has ventur'd to deviate from the beaten road, and defcribed the shepherds and ploughmen of our own time and country, instead of those of the Golden Age, to which the modern critics confine the pastoral. His fix Pastorals, which he calls the Shepherd’s Week, are a beautiful and lively representation of the manners, customs, and notions of our rusticks. We shall infert the first of them, entitled, The Squabble, wherein two clowns try to out-do each other in finging the praises of their sweet-hearts, leaving it to a third to determine the controversy. The persons names are Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, and Clodtipole.

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Ah Lobbin Clout ! I ween ţ, my plight is guest;
For he that loves, a stranger is to rest.
If fwains belye not, thou hast prov'd the smart,
And Blouzelinda's mistress of thy heart.
This rifing rear betokeneth well thy mind ;
Those arms are folded for thy Blouzelind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree ;
Thee Blouzelinda finites, Buxoma me.

L o B B 1 N C L o U T.
Ah Blouzelind/ I love thee more behalf,
Than deer their fawns, or cows the new-fall’n calf.

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Woe worth the tongue, may blisters fore it gall,
That names Buxoma, Blouzelind withal !

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:: | From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies,
: To know when hail will fall, or winds arife.
He taught us erst * the heifer’s tail to view,

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| That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain. rii When fwallows fleet foar high and sport in air, | : He told us that the welkin would be clear.

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Begin thy carrols then, thou vaunting flouch ;
Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.

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My brown Buxoma is the featest maid,
That e'er at wake delightfome gambol play'd ;
Clean as young lambkins, or the goose's down,
And like the goldfinch in her funday gown.
The witlefs lamb may sport upon the plain,
The frisking kid delight the gaping swain ;
The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,
And my cur Tray play deftest * feats around:
But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray,
Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.

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Sweet is my toil when Blouzalind is near;
Of her bereft, 'tis winter all the year.
With her no fultry fummer's heat I know ;
In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow.
Come, Blouzalinda, ease thy fwain's defire,
My summer’s shadow, and my winter's fire !

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With gentle finger ftroak'd her milky care. ..., . . . . . .

* N:mbleft, + Very foon,



I quaintly * stole a kifs ; at first, 'tis true,
She frown'd, yet after granted one or two.
Lobbin, I swear, believe who will my vows,.
Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cows.

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In good roast-beef my land-lord sticks his knife, The capon fat, delights his dainty wife ; Pudding our parfon eats, the 'squire loves hare, But white-pot thick, is my Buxoma's fare. While she loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be, Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.

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As at bot. cockles once I laid me down, And felt the weighty hand of many a clown ; Buxoma, gave a gentle tap, and I Quick rose, and read foft mischief in her eye,

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On two near elms, the flacken'd cord I hung, Now high, now low, my Blouzelinda swung: With the rude wind her rumpled garment rofe, And show'd her taper leg, and fcartlet hofe.

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