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Accept this boon, 'tis all my present store ;
To-morrow will produce as many more.
Mean while these heart-consuming pains remove,
And give me gentle pity for my love.
Oh was I made by fome transforming power 2O
A bee to buzz in your sequester’d bower !
To pietce your ivy shade with murmuring found,
And the light leaves that compaís you around.
I know thee, love, and to my forrow find,
A god thou art, but of the favage kind ; . 25
A lioness fure fuckled the fell child,
And with his brothers nurft him in the wild;
On me his scorching flames inceffant prey,
Glow in my bones, and melt my foul away.
Ah, nymph, whose eyes destrućtive glances dart, 30
Fair is your face, but flinty is your heart :
With kisses kind this rage of love appease ;
For me, fond Swain ! ev'n empty kifies please.
Your scorn distraćts me, and will make me tear
The flow’ry crown Iwove for you to wear, 35
Where roses mingle with the ivy-wreath,
And fragrant herbs ambrofial odours breathe,
Ah me ! what pangs I feel, and yet the fair
Nor fees my forrows, nor will hear my prayer.
I'll doff my garments, since I needs must die, 4o }
And from yon rock, that points its summit high, |
Where patient Alpis snares the finny fry,
I'll leap, and though perchance I rife again,
You'll laugh to fee me plunging in the main.

By a prophetic poppy-leaf I found 45.

Your chang’d affection, for it gave no found
Though in my hand struck hollow as it lay,
But quickly wither’d like your love away.
An old witch brought fad tiding to my ears,

She who tells fortunes with the fieve and sheers ; 50

For leafing barley in my fields of late,
She told me, I should love, and you should hate !

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Two wanton kids run frisking at her fide ;
Which oft the nut-brown maid, Erithacis, 55
Ha s beg'd, and paid before-hand with a kifs ;
And fince you thus my ardent pastion flight,
Her's they shall be before to-morrow night.

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Myright eye itches ; may it lucky prove,
Perhaps I foon fhall fee the nymph I love;
Beneath yon pine I'll fing distinct and clear,
Perhaps the fair my tender notes may hear;
Perhaps may pity my melodious moan ;
She is not metamorphos'd into stone.
Hippomenes, provok'd by noble strife,
To win a mistress, or to lose his life,
Threw golden fruit in Atalanta's way,
The bright temptation caus'd the nymph to stay ;
She look'd, she languish'd, all her foul took fire,
She plung'd into the gulph of deep defire.
To Pyle from Othry’s fage Melampus came,
He drove the lowing herd, yet won the dame ;
Fair Pero blest his brother Bias’ arms,
And in a virtuous race diffus'd unfading charms.
Adonis fed his cattle on the plain,
And fea-born Venus lov'd the rural fwain ;
She mourn’d him wounded in the fatal chace,
Nor dead dismiss'd him from her warm embrace.
Though young Endymion was by Cynthia blest,
I envy nothing but his lasting rest.
jafion slumb’ring on the Cretan plain
Ceres once faw, and bleft the happy fwain
With pleasures too divine for ears profane,
My head grows giddy, love affects me fore ;
Yet you regard not ; so I'll fing no more–
Here will I put a period to my care–
Adieu, falfe nymph, adieu ungrateful fair :
Stretch'd near the grotto, when I've breath'd my last
My corfe will give the wolves a rich repast,

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Wirgil succeeds Theocritus, from whom he has in fome

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eaders will fee that we are obliged to Mr. Dryden for the translation.

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For never can I deem him less than God.
The tender firstlings of my woolly breed
Shall on his holy altar often bleed.
He gave me kine to graze the flow’ry plain,
And fo my pipe renew'd the rural strain.

M E L I B o B u s.
I envy not your fortune, but admire,

That while the raging fword and wasteful fire
Destroy the wretched neighbourhood around,
No hostile arms approach your happy ground.
Far diff'rent is my fate ; my feeble goats
With pains I drive from their forfaken cotes:
. And this you fee I scarcely drag along,
Who yeaning on the rocks has left her young,
The hope and promise of my falling fold,
My lofs by dire portents the Gods foretold ;
For, had I not been blind, I might have seen
Yon riven oak, the fairest on the green, :
And the hoarse raven on the blasted bough

By croaking from the left presag'd the coming blow.

But tell me, Tityrus, what heav'nly power
Preferv'd your fortunes in that fatal hour ?

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M E L 1 B o E U s.
What great occafion call'd you hence to Rome ?

T i t x R u s.
Freedom, which came at length, tho' flow to come:

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Nor did my fearch of liberty begin,, *
Till my black hairs were chang'd upon my chin.
Nor Amaryllis would vouchfafe a look,
Till Galatea’s meaner bonds I broke.
Till then a helpless, hopeless, homely fwain,
I fought not freedom, nor aspir'd to gain :
Tho' many a viétim from my folds was bought,
And many a cheese to country markets brought,
Yet all the little that I got I fpent,
And still return'd as empty as I went.

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What should I do ? while here I was enchain’d,
No glimpfe of godlike liberty remain'd;
Nor could I hope in any place but there
To find a God so present to my pray’r.
There first the youth of heav'nly birth I view'd,
For whom our monthly victims are renew’d.
He heard my vows, and graciously decreed
My grounds to be restor'd, my former flocks to feed.

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O fortunate old man ! whose farm remains

For you sufficient, and requites your pains, -
Tho' rushes overspread the neighb’ring plains,
Tho' here the marshy grounds approach your fields
And there the foil a stony harvest yields. -
Your teeming ewes shall no strange meadows try,
Nor fear a rot from tainted company.
Behold yon bord'ring fence of fallow trees

Is fraught with flow’rs, the flow’rs are fraught with bees:

The busy bees, with a fost murm'ring strain,
Invite to gentle fleep the lab’ring fwain :
While from the neighb’ring rock with rural fongs
The pruner's voice the pleafing dream prolongs;
Stock-doves and turtles tell their am’rous pain,
And, from the lofty elms, of love complain.

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But we must beg our bread in climes unknown,
Beneath the scorching or the freezing zone ;
And some to fair Oaxis shall be fold,
Or try the Lybian heat, or Scythian cold ;
The rest among the Britons be confin'd,
A race of men from all the world disjoin'd.
O! must the wretched exiles ever mourn ?
Nor after length of rolling years return ?
Are we condemn'd by fate's unjust decree,
No more our houses and our homes to fee ?
Or shall we mount again the rural throne,
And rule the country, kingdoms once our own ?
Did we for these barbarians plant and fow, -
On these, on thefe, our happy fields bestow ? |
Good heav'n, what dire effects from civil discordflow -
Now let me graft my pears, and prune the vine ;
The fruit is theirs, the labour only mine.
Farewel my paftures, my paternal ftock,
My fruitful fields, and my more fruitful flock !
No more, my goats, shall I behold you climb
The steepy cliffs, or crop the flow’ry thyme ;
No more extended in the grot below,
Shall fee you browzing on the mountain’s brow»
The prickly shrubs, and after on the bare
Lean down the deep abyss and hang in air!
No more my sheep shall fip the morning dew ;
No more my fong shall please the rural crew : .. .
Adieu, my tuneful pipe ! and all the world adieu !

- A

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