ame, and ask'd, what magic caus'd my smart,

hat ill eyes malignant glances dart? What eyes but hers, alas! have pow'r to move? And is there magic but what dwells in love? Resound, ye hills, resound 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,

ell than tygers on the Libyan plain: Thou wert from Ætna's burning entrails torn, Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born. Resound, ye hills, resound 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 resound my strains! Thus sung 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 Gay 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 six 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 singing 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 throatle shrill the bramble-bush forsake; No chirping lark the welkin sheen * invokes; No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes; O'er yonder hill does scant † the dawn appear; Then why does Cuddy leave his cott so rear ‡?

Cud. Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween § my plight is guest; For he that loves, a stranger is to rest.

wains belye not, thou hast proved the smart, And Blouzalinda's mistress 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 smites, Buxoma me.

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

Cud. Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise, Lest blisters sore on thy own tongue arise. Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithsome swain, The wisest lout of all the neigh'ring plain!