nce saw, and blest the happy swain With pleasures too divine for ears profane. My head grows giddy, love affects me sore; Yet you regard not; so I'll sing no more— Here will I put a period to my care— Adieu, falle nymph, adieu ungrateful fair; Stretch'd near the grotto, when I've breath'd my last, My corse will give the wolves a rich repast, As sweet to them as honey to your taste.
Fawkles.
Virgil succeeds Theocritus, from whom he has in Virgil some places copied, and always imitated with success. As a specimen of his manner, we shall introduce his first pastoral, which is generally allowed to be the most perfect.
Meliboeus and Tityrus.
Mel. Beneath the shade which beechen boughs diffuse, You, Tityrus, entertain your fylvan muse. Round the wide world in banishment we roam, Fore'd from our pleasing fields and native home; While stretch'd at ease you sing your happy loves, And Amyrillis fills the shady groves. Tit. These blessings, friend, a deity bestow'd; For never can I deem him less than god. The tender offspring of my woolly breed Shall on his holy altar often bleed. He gave me kine to graze the flow'ry plain, And to my pipe renew'd the rural strain. Mel. I envy not your fortune; but admire, That while the raging sword and wasteful fire Defroy the wretched neighbourhood around, No hostile arms approach your happy ground. Far different is my fate; my feeble goats With pains I drive from their forsaken cotes: And this you see I fearelessly drag along, Who yearning on the rocks has left her young, The hope and promise of my falling fold. My loss 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 leaf prefigur'd the coming blow. But tell me, Tityrus, what heav'nly pow'r Preferv'd your fortunes in that fatal hour? Tit. Fool that I was, I thought imperial Rome Like Mantua, where on market-days we come, And thither drive our tender lambs from home. So kids and whelps their fires and dams express; And so the great I measur'd by the lea: But country-towns, compar'd with her, appear Like shrubs when lofty cypresses are near. Mel. What great occasion call'd you hence to Rome? Tit. Freedom, which came at length, tho' slow to come; Nor did my search of liberty begin Till my black hairs were chang'd upon my chin; Nor Amaryllis would vouchsafe a look, Till Galatea's mem'ry bonds I broke. Till then a helpless, hopeless, lonely swain, I sought not freedom, nor aspir'd to gain: Tho' many a victim from my folds was bought, And many a cheese to country markets brought, Yet all the little that I got I spent, And still return'd as empty as I went.
Mel. We stood amaz'd to see your mistress mourn, Unknowing that she pin'd for your return; We wondered why she kept her fruit so long, For whom so late the ungather'd apples hang: But now the wonder ceases, since I see She kept them only, Titirus, for thee: For thee the bubbling springs appear'd to mourn, And whispering pines made vows for thy return.
Tit. What should I do? while here I was enchained, No glimpse 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 restored my former flocks to feed.
Mel. O fortunate old man! whose farm remains For you sufficient, and requites your pains, Though 'tis miles overspread the neighboring plains, Tho' here the marshy grounds approach your fields, And there the soil a heavy harvest yields. Your teeming ewes shall no strange meadows try, Nor fear a rot from tainted company. Behold you bordering fence of fallow trees Is fraught with flowers, the flowers are fraught with bees: The busy bees, with a soft murmuring strain, Invite to gentle sleep the lab'ring swain: While from the neighboring rock with rural songs The pruner's voice the pleasing dream prolongs; Stock doves and turtles tell their am'rous pain, And, from the lofty clams, of love complain.
Tit. Th' inhabitants of seas and skies shall change And fish on shore and flags in air shall range, The banish'd Parthian dwell on Arar's brink, And the blue German shall the Tigris drink; Ere I, forsaking gratitude and truth, Forget the figure of that godlike youth.
Mel. But we must beg our bread in climes unknown, Beneath the scorching or the freezing zone; And some to far Oasis shall be fold, Or try the Libyan 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 housetops and our homes to see? Or shall we mount again the rural throne, And rule the country, kingdoms once our own? Did we for these barbarians plant and sow, On these, on these, our happy fields below? Good heav'n, what dire effects from civil discord flow! Now let me graft my pears, and prune the vine; The fruit is theirs, the labour only mine.
Farewell my pastures, my paternal flock! 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 see you browsing 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 sip the morning dew; No more my fowls shall peale the rural crew: Adieu, my tuneful pipe! and all the world, adieu!
Tit. This night, at least, with me forget your care; Cheese nuts and curds and cream shall be your fare: The carpet ground shall be with leaves o'erpread, And boughs shall weave a cov'ring for your head: For see you sunny hill the shade extends, And curling smoke from cottages ascends.
Dryden.
Spenser was the first of our countrymen who acquired Spenser any considerable reputation by this method of writing. We shall insert his fifth eclogue, or that for June, which is allegorical, as will be seen by the
Argument. "Hobbinol, from a description of the pleasures of the place, excites Colin to the enjoyment of them. Colin declares himself incapable of delight by reason of his ill success in love, and his loss of Rosalind, who had treacherously forsaken him for Menalces another shepherd. By Titirus (mentioned before in Spenser's second eclogue, and again in the twelfth) is plainly meant Chaucer, whom the author sometimes professed to imitate. In the person of Colin is represented the author himself; and Hobbinol's inviting him to leave the hill country, seems to allude to his leaving the north, where, as is mentioned in his life, he had for some time resided."
Hob. Lo! Colin, here the place, whose pleasant sight From other shades hath wean'd my wand'ring mind: Tell me, what wants me here, to work delight? The simple air, the gentle warbling wind, So calm, so cool, as nowhere else I find: The grassy ground with dainty daisies dight, The bramble-bush, where birds of every kind To the water's fall their tunes attempt right.
Col. O! happy Hobbinol, I blest thy state, That paradise hast found which Adam lost. Here wander may thy flock early or late, Withouten dread of wolves to been ytoft; Thy lovely lays here mayst thou freely boast: But I, unhappy man! whom cruel fate, And angry gods, pursue from coast to coast, Can nowhere find to shroud my luckless pate.
Hob. Then if by me thou list advised be, Forlacke the soil that doth thee bewitch: Leave me those hills, where harbroughnis to see, Nor holy bush, nor breere, nor winding ditch; And to the dales resort, where shepherds rich, And fruitful flocks been everywhere to see: Here no night-ravens lodge, more black than pitch, Nor evil ghosts, nor ghastly owls do flee. But friendly fairies met with many graces, And light-foot nymphs can chase the ling'ring night, With heydegues, and trimly trodden traces; Whilst sisters nine, which dwell on Parnass' height,
Do Do make them music, for their more delight; And Pan himself to kiss their crystal faces, Will pipe and dance, when Phoebe shineth bright: Such peerless pleasures have we in their places.
Col. And I whilst youth, and course of careless years, Did let me walk withouten links of love, In such delights did joy amongst my peers: But riper age hath pleasures done reprove; My fancy eke from former follies move To strayed steps: for time in palling wears (As garments done, which waxen old above) And draweth new delights with horry hairs. Though couth I sing of love, and tune my pipe Unto my plaintive pleas in verses made: Though would I seek for queen-apples unripe To give my Rosalind, and in sommer shade Dight gaudy garlands was my common trade, To crown her golden locks: but years more ripe, And loss of her, whose love as life I wayde, Those weary wanton toys away did wipe.
Hob. Colin, to hear thy rhymes and roundelayes, Which thou went wont on watful hills to sing, I more delight, than lark in sommer days: Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring, And taught the birds, which in the lower spring Did throned in shady leaves from sunny rays, Frame to thy song their cheerful cherishing, Or hold their peace, for flame of thy sweet lays. I saw Calliope with mutes moe, Soon as thy oaten pipe began to sound, Their ivory lutes and tambourins forego, And from the fountain, where they fate around, Ren after hastily thy silver found.
But when they came, where thou thy skill didst show, They drew aback, as half with shame confound, Shepherd to see, them in their art outgo.
Col. Of mutes, Hobbiniol, I con no skill, For they been daughters of the highest Jove, And holde scorn of homely shepherds quill: For firth I heard that Pan with Phoebus strove Which him to much rebuke and danger drove, I never lift presume to Parnas's hill, But piping low, in shade of lowly grove, I play to please myself, albeit ill. Nought weigh I, who my song doth praise or blame, Nor strive to win renown, or pass the rest: With shepherds its not follow flying fame, But feed his flocks in fields, where falls him best. I wot my rimes been rough, and rudely dreit; The fitter they, my careful care to frame: Enough is me to paint out my unrest, And pour my piteous plaints out in the same. The God of shepherds, Tityrus, is dead, Who taught me homely, as I can, to make: He, whilst he lived, was the sovereign head Of shepherds all, that been with love ytake. Well couth he wail his woes, and lightly flake The flames which love within his heart had bred, And tell us merry tales to keep us wake, The while our sheep about us safely fed. Now dead he is, and lieth wrapt in lead, (O why should death on him such outrage throw!) And all his puffing skill with him is fled, The fame whereof doth daily greater grow. But if on me some little drops would flow Of that the spring was in his learned bed, I fain were to learn these woods to wail my woe, And teach the trees their trickling tears to lend. Then would my plaints, caus'd of discomfet, As messengers of this my painful flight, Fly to my love, wherever that lie, And pierce her heart with point of worthy wight; As she deserves, that wrought so deadly plight. And thou, Menalces, that by treachery Didst undertake my lais to was to fight, Shouldst well be known for such thy villany. But since I am not, as I with I were, Ye gentle shepherds, which your flocks do feed, Whether on hills or dales, or other where, Bear witness all of this so wicked deed: And tell the lais, whose flower is waxe a weed, And faultless faith is turn'd to faithless feere, That the the truest shepherd's heart made bleed, That lives on earth, and loved her most dear. Hob. O! careful Colin, I lament thy case, Thy tears would make the hardest flint to flow! Ah! faithless Rosalind, and void of grace, That art the root of all this usefull woe! But now is time, I guess, homeward to go; Then rise, ye blest flocks, and home apace. Left night with flealing steps do you forelo, And wet your tender lambs that by you trace.
By the following eclogue the reader will perceive that Philips Mr Philips has, in imitation of Spenser, preserved in his pastorals many antiquated words, which, though they are discarded from polite conversation, may naturally be supposed still to have place among the shepherds and other rustics in the country. We have made choice of his second eclogue, because it is brought home to his own business, and contains a complaint against those who had spoken ill of him and his writings.
Thenot, Colinet.
Th. Is it not Colinet I lonecome see Leaning with folded arms against the tree? Or is it age of late bedims my sight? 'Tis Colinet, indeed, in woeful plight. Thy cloudy look, why melting into tears, Unleamly, now the sky so bright appears? Why in this mournful manner art thou found, Unthankful lad, when all things smile around? Or hearst not lark and linnet jointly sing, Their notes blithe-warbling to salute the spring?
Col. Thou' blithe their notes, not so my wayward fate; Nor lark would sing, nor linnet, in my flate. Each creature, Thenot, to his task is born; As they to mirth and music, I to mourn. Waking, at midnight, I my woes renew, My tears oft mingling with the falling dew.
Th. Small caule, I ween, has lusty youth to plain; Or who may then the weight of old sustain, When every slackening nerve begins to fail, And the load presseth as our days prevail? Yet though with years my body downward tend, As trees beneath their fruit in autumn bend, Spite of my frowny head and icy veins, My mind a cheerful temper still retains; And why should man, mishap what will, repine, Sour every sweet, and mix with tears his wine? But tell me then; it may relieve thy woe, To let a friend thine inward ailment know.