each cave and echoing rock rebounds. Ye pow'rs, what pleasing frenzy soothes my mind! Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind? She comes, my Delia comes!—now cease, my lay; And cease, ye gales, to bear my sighs away! Next Ægion sung, while Windsor groves admir'd; Rehearfe, ye muses, what yourselves inspir'd. Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strain! Of perjur'd Doris, dying, I complain: Here where the mountains, leis'ning as they rise, Loose the low vales, and steal into the skies; While lab'ring oxen, spent with toil and heat, In their loose traces from the field retreat; While curling smokes from village-tops are seen, 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 carve'd her am'rous vows, While the with garlands hung the bending boughs: The garlands fade, the boughs are worn away; So dies her love, and so my hopes decay. Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strain! Now bright Arcturus 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: Jest gods! shall all things yield return but love? Refound, 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 prefer'd my sheep? Pan came, and ask'd, what magic caus'd my smart, Or what ill 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, Forlack 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 went from Ætna's burning entrails torn, Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born. Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay! Farewell, 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 lung the shepherds till th' approach of night, The skies yet blushing with departing light, When falling dews with spangles deck the glade, And the low sun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade.

To these pastorals, which are written agreeably to the taste of antiquity, and the rules above prescribed, we shall beg leave to subjoin another that may be called burlesque pastoral, wherein the ingenious author, Mr Gay, has ventured to deviate from the beaten road, and described 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 rustics. We shall insert the first of them, intitled The Squabble, wherein two clowns try to outdo each other in fingering the praises of their sweethearts, leaving it to a third to determine the controversy. The persons named are Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, and Cloddipole.

Lob. Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake; No thrilfe shrill the bramble-bush forlack; No chirping lark the welkin thien * invokes; No damfet yet the swelling udder strokes; O'er yonder hill does scant + the dawn appear; Then why does Cuddy leave his cot to rear ‡? Cud. Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween || my plight is gueft; * Shining or bright sky. † Scarce, ‡ Early. Conceive.

For he that loves, a stranger is to reft. If swains belve not, thou half prov'd the smart, And Blouzalinda's mitrefes of thy heart. This rising tear betokeneth well thy mind; Those arms are folded for thy Blouzalind. And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree; Thee Blouzalinda finites, Buxoma me.

Lob. Ah Blouzalind! I love thee more by half, Than dear their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf. Woe worth the tongue, may blifters fore it gall, That names Buxoma Blouzalind withal!

Cud. Hold, witsle Lobbin Clout, I thee advise, Left blifters fore on thy own tongue arife, Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithesome swain, The wildest louft of all the neighb'ring plain! From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies, To know when hail will fall, or winds arise. He taught us erit* the heifer's tail to view, When stuck aloft, that flow'r's would straight ensue: He first that useful secret did explain, That pricking corns foretold the gathering rain. When swallows fleet so high and sport in air, He told us that the wellkin would be clear. Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse, And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse. I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee, That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.

Lob. See this tobacco-pouch, that's lin'd with hair, Made of the skin of thickest fallow-deer; This pouch, that's tied with tape of reddish hue, I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.

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

Lob. My Blouzalinda is the bithief lady, Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass. Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows, Fair is the daffy that beside her grows; Fair is the gilly-flower of gardens sweet; Fair is the marigold, for pottage meet: But Blouzalind's than gilly-flower more fair, Than daffy, marigold, or king-cup rare.

Cud. My brown Buxoma is the feateft maid That e'er at wake delightime gambol play'd; Clean as young lambskin, or the goose's down, And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown. The wittle lamb may sport upon the plain, The frisking kid delight the gaping ivain; The wanton calf may skip with many a bound, And my cur Tray play defteftly 'round.

But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray, Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.

Lob. Sweet is my toil when Blouzalind is near; Of her bereft, 'tis winter all the year. With her no sultry summer's heat I know; In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow. Come, Blouzalinda, aide thy twain's desire, My summer's shadow, and my winter's fire!

Cud. As with Buxoma once I work'd at hay, E'en noon-tide labour seem'd an holiday; And holidays, if haply the were gone, Like worky-days I wish'd would soon be done.

Etfloons†, O sweetheart kind, my love repay, And all the year shall then be holiday.

Lob. As Blouzalinda, in a gamefome mood, Behind a hay-cock loudly laughing flood, I filly run and match'd a halffy kits; She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amiss. Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to say, Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay.

Cud. As my Buxoma, in a morning fair, With gentle finger stroak'd her milky care, 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.

Lob. Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen butter's dear, Of Irish swains potatoes are the cheer; Oats for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind, Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzalind:

While the loves turnips, butter I'll despise, Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoes prize.

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

Lob. As once I play'd at blind man's buff, it hap't About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt: I mis'd the twains, and seiz'd on Blouzalind; True speaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind.

Cud. As at hot-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 soft mischief in her eye.

Lob. On two near elms the slacken'd cord I hang; Now high, now low, my Blouzalinda swing; With the rude wind her rumpled garment rolo, And flow'd her taper leg and scarlet hofe.

Cud. Across the fallen oak the plank I laid, And myself pois'd against the tottering maid! High leapt the plank, and down Buxoma fell; I spy'd—but faithful sweethearts never tell.

Lob. This riddle, Cuddy, if thou canst, explain, This wily riddle puzzles every swain: What flow'r is that which bears the virgin's name, The richest metal joined with the same?†

Cud. Answer, thou earle, and judge this riddle right, I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight: What flow'r is that which royal honour craves, Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis known on grave?†

Cud. Forbear, contending louis, give o'er your strains; An oaken staff each merits for his pains. But see the sun-beams bright to labour warn, And gild the thatch of goodman Hodge's barn. Your herds for want of water stand a-dry; They're weary of your fongs—and fo am I.

We have given the rules usually laid down for pastoral writing, and exhibited some examples written on this plan; but we have to observe that this poem may take very different forms. It may appear either as a comedy or as a ballad. As a pastoral comedy, there is perhaps nothing which possesses equal merit with Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd, and we know not where to find in any language a rival to the Pastoral Ballad of Shenstone. That the excellence of this poem is great can hardly be questioned, since it compelled a critic, who was never lavish of his praise, and who on all occasions was ready to vilify the pastoral, to express himself in terms of high encomium. "In the first part (says he) are two passages, to which if any mind denies its sympathy, it has no acquaintance with love or nature:

I priz'd every boar that went by, Beyond all that had pleas'd me before; But now they are past, and I sigh, And I grieve that I priz'd them no more. When forc'd the fair nymph to forego, What anguish I felt in my heart! Yet I thought—but it might not be so, 'Twas with pain that she saw me depart." She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew, My path I could hardly discern; So sweetly she bade me adieu, I thought that she bade me return.

"In the second (continuing the same critic) this passage has its prettiness, though it be not equal to the former."

I have found out a gift for my fair; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear, She would say 'twas a barbarous deed: For he ne'er could be true, the averr'd, Who could rob a poor bird of its young; And I lov'd her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

Sect. V. Of Didactic or Preceptive Poetry.

The method of writing precepts in verse, and embellishing them with the graces of poetry, had its rise, we may suppose, from a due consideration of the frailties and pervertences of human nature; and was intended to engage the affections, in order to improve the mind and amend the heart.