I from the jaws of a gardiner's bitch I went to the toade, breeds under the wall, Dame. Yes: I have brought, to helpe your vows, Witness those rings and roundelayes And later James came in ; Or else they take their ease. They never could endure; Their mirth, was punish'd sure: To pinch such blacke and blue : Now they have left our quarters; $125. The Fairies Farewell. Who every meale can mend your cheare FAREWELL, rewards and Fairies! Good housewives now may say; For now foule sluts in dairies Doe fare as well as they; And though they sweepe their hearths no less The fairies lost command! They did but change priests babies, But some have chang'd your land: Who live as changelings ever since, At morning and at evening both When Tom came home from labour, Were lost, if it were addle. § 126. Unfading Beauty. This little beautiful Sounet is reprinted from a smail volume of "Poems by THOMAS CAREW, Esq, one of the gentlemen of the privie-chamber, and sewer in ordinary to his majesty Charles I. Lond. 1640." This elegant, and almost forgotten writer, whose poems have been deservedly revived, died in the prime of his age, in 1639. In the original follows a third stanza, which, not being of general application, nor of equal merit, I have ventured to omnit. HEE that loves a rosie cheeke, Or corall lip admires, Fuell to maintaine his fires; Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, Kindle never-dying fires; § 127. Song. The Sky-Lark. SHENSTONE. And if she deign thy notes to hear, And if she praise thy matin song, Tell her, the sounds that soothe her ear To Damon's native plains belong. Tell her, in livelier plumes array'd, The bird from Indian groves may shine; But ask the lovely, partial maid, Where are his notes compar'd with thine? Then bid her treat yon witless beau And all his flaunting race with scorn; 'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain reclin'd, A hermit his nightly complaint thus began: Though mournful his numbers, his soul was resign'd; He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. "Ah! why, thus abandon'd to darkness and woe, Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow; And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet, if pity inspire thee, O cease not thy lay! Mourn, sweetest companion! man calls thee § 129. A Pastoral Ballad. In Four Parts. SHENSTONE. 1. ABSENCE. YE shepherds so cheerful and gay, Nor talk of the change that ye find; —I have left my dear Phillis behind. Now I know what it is to have strove With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is to admire and to love, And to leave her we love and admire. Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn, And the damps of each evening repel : Alas! I am faint and forloru: -I have bade my dear Phillis farewell. Since Phillis vouchsaf'd me a look, I I never once dream'd of my vine: Why wander thus pensively here? The pride of that valley, is flown ; What anguish I felt at my heart! Yet I thought, but it might not be so, She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew; 'Twas with pain when she saw me depart. My path I could hardly discern ; So sweetly she bade me adieu, I thought that she bade me return. The pilgrim that journeys all day To visit some far-distant shrine, Is happy, nor heard to repine. 2. HOPE. My banks they are furnish'd with bees, And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains, all border'd with moss, Where the hare-bell and violet grow, Not a pine in my grove is there seen, But a sweet-brier twines it around. But it glitters with fishes of gold. One would think she might like to retire To the bow'r I have labor'd to rear ; Not a shrub that I heard her admire, But I hasted and planted it there. O how sudden the jessamine strove With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love, To prune the wild branches away. With her mien she enamours the brave; She is every way pleasing to me. Might she ruin the peace of my mind! From the plains, from the woodlands, and In ringlets he dresses his hair, groves, What strains of wild melody flow! As she may not be fond to resign. I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me that plunder forhear, She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. Unmov'd, when her Corydon sighs? Soft scenes of contentment and ease! Where I could have pleasingly stray'd, If aught in her absence could please. But where does my Phillida stray? And where are her grots and her bowers? Are the groves and the valleys as gay, And the shepherds as gentle, as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair, And the face of the valleys as fine; The swains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mine. 3. SOLICITude. Why will you my passion reprove, And his crook is bestudded around; And his pipe-O may Phillis beware Of a magic there is in the sound! "Tis his with mock passion to glow; 'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, "How her face is as bright as the snow, And her bosom, be sure, is as cold; Repine at her triumphs, and die." He throws it at Phillis's feet. More sweet, than the jessamine's flow'r! What are pinks in a morn, to compare? What is eglantine after a shower? "Then the lily no longer is white; Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom; Then the violets die with despite, And the woodbines give up their perfume." Thus glide the soft numbers along, And he fancies no shepherd his peer; Were not Phillis to lend it an ear. 4. DISAPPOINTMENT. Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay, She was fair, and my passion begun; She smil'd, and I could not but love; She is faithless, and I am undone. Perhaps I was void of all thought; Ye that witness the woes I endure, What it cannot instruct you to cure. Beware how you loiter in vain Amid nymphs of a higher degree: It is not for me to explain How fair and how fickle they be. Alas! from the day that we met, What hope of an end to my woes, When I cannot endure to forget The glance that undid my repose? The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree, The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose, The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows, Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. But we are not to find them our own: O ye woods, spread your branches apace; I would hide with the beasts of the chase, $130. Phabe. A Pastoral. BYROM. My time, O ye muses! was happily spent, When Phoebe went with me wherever I went: Ten thousand soft pleasures I felt in my breast: Sure never foud shepherd like Colin was blest. But now she is gone, and has left me behind, What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! When things were as fine as could possibly be, I thought it was spring; but alas! it was she. The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among, Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, It was pleasant to look at, 'twas music to hear! But now she is absent, I walk by its side, And, still as it murmurs, do nothing but chide : Must be you so cheerful, whilst I in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain. go My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; through, Sweet music went with us both all the wood [too; The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone! Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gives every thing else its agreeable sound. Will no pitying Power that hears me com- Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain? $131. A Pastoral Ballad. ROWE. To his sighs with a sigh did reply; (Thus sadly complaining, he cried ;) When first I beheld that fair face, "Twere better by far I had died. She talk'd, and 1 bless'd her dear tongue; When she smil'd, it was pleasure too great; I listen'd, and cried, when she sung, Was nightingale ever so sweet! How foolish was I to believe She could doat on so lowly a clown, Or that her fond heart would not grieve To forsake the fine folk of the town! To think that a beauty so gay So kind and so constant would prove.; Or go clad, like our maidens, in grey, Or live in a cottage on love! What though I have skill to complain, Though the muses my temples have crown'd; What though, when they hear my soft strain, The virgins sit weeping around; Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain, Thy pipe and thy laurel resign; Thy fair one inclines to a swain Whose music is sweeter than thine. All you, my companions so dear, Forbear to accuse the false maid. Though through the wide world I should range, 'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly; "Twas hers to be false, and to change; "Tis mine to be constant, and die. If, while my hard fate I sustain, In her breast any pity is found; Let her come, with the nymphs of the plain, Is, to shade me with cypress and yew; And deck her in golden array; Be finest at ev'ry fine show, And frolic it all the long day: While Colin, forgotten and gone, No more shall be talk'd of or seen, Unless when, beneath the pale moon, His ghost shall glide over the green. § 132. A Fairy Tale. PARNELL. His mountain back mote well be said This creature dar'd to love. He felt the charms of Edith's eyes, Could ladies look within; His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd, 'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost That reach'd the neighbour town: A trembling rocks the ground: And now the sounds increase: And, from the corner where he lay, He sees a train, profusely gay, Come prankling o'er the place. But (trust me, gentles) never yet Was dight a masquing half so neat, Or half so rich, before; The country lent the sweet perfumes, Now, whilst he gaz'd, a gallant, drest With awful accent cried : ،، What mortal, of a wretched mind, Whose sighs infect the balmy wind, Has here presum'd to hide?" At this the swain, whose vent'rous soul No fears of magic art control, Advanc'd in open sight; "Nor have I cause of dread," he said, "Who view, by no presumption led, Your revels of the night. ،، "Twas grief, for scorn of faithful love, Which made my steps unweeting rove Amid the nightly dew." "'Tis well," the gallant cries again, "We fairies never injure men Who dare to tell us true. ،، Exalt thy love-dejected heart ; Be mine the task, or ere we part, To make thee grief resign; He spoke, and, all a sudden, there The Monarch leads the Queen : With Edwin of the Green. As heart and lip desire : But now, to please the fairie king, Some wind and tumble like an ape, In Edwin's wond'ring eyes. Till one, at last, that Robin hight, Has bent him up aloof; And full against the beam he flung, The gambol has been shown." |