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And went, and came, that sure all was not well : Therefore a comely maid did oft sustain

His fainting steps, and fleeting life maintain :
Pollicita she hight, which ne'er could lie or feign.

These led the vanguard: and an hundred more
Fill'd up the empty ranks with order'd train:
But first in middle ward did justly go

In goodly arms, a fresh and lovely swain,†

Of heavenly love the twin, but younger brother: Well might he be, for even their very mother, With pleasing error oft mistook th' one for th' other.

As when fair Paris gave that golden ball,

A thousand doubts ran in his stagg'ring breast; All lik'd him well, fain would he give it all;

Each better seems, and still the last seems best:

Doubts ever new his reaching hand deferr'd;

The more he looks, the more his judgment err'd: So she first this, then that, then none, then both preferr❜d.

Like them their armour seem'd full near of kin :

In this they only differ, th' elder bent

His higher soul to heav'n; the younger twin 'Mong mortals here his love and kindness spent; Teaching (strange alchymy) to get a living By selling land, and to grow rich by giving ; By emptying, filling bags; so heav'n and earth atchieving.

About him

creep the poor with num❜rous trains,

Whom he with tender care, and large expence,

With kindest words and succour entertains;

*The Promise. † Charity.

Nor looks for thanks, or thinks of recompence:
His wardrobe serves to clothe the naked side,
And shameful parts of bared bodies hide;

If other clothes be lack'd, his own he would divide.

To rogues his gate was shut; but open lay
Kindly the weary traveller inviting:
Oft therefore angels hid in mortal clay,

And God himself, in his free roofs delighting,
Lowly to visit him would not disdain,

And in his narrow cabin oft remain ;

Whom heav'n, and earth, and all the world cannot contain.

His table still was fill'd with wholesome meat,

Not to provoke but quiet appetite;

And round about the hungry freely eat,

With plenteous cates cheering their feeble sp❜rite; Their earnest vows ope heav'n's widest door; That not in vain sweet plenty evermore

With gracious eye looks down upon his blessed store.

Behind attend him, in an uncouth wise,

A troop with little caps, and shaved head; Such whilome was enfranchis'd bondmen's guise, New freed from cruel master's servile dread: Those had he lately bought from captive chain; Hence they his triumph sing with joyful strain, And on his head due praise, and thousand blessings rain.

He was a father to the fatherless;

To widows he supplied a husband's care; Nor would he heap up woe to their distress, Or by a guardian's name their state impair,

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But rescue them from strong oppressor's might; Nor doth he weigh the great man's heavy spite: Who fears the highest Judge need fear no mortal wight.

Once every week he on his progress went,

The sick to visit, and those meagre swains Which all their weary life in darkness spent, Clogg'd with cold iron, press'd with heavy chains; He hoards not wealth for his loose heir to spend it, But with a willing hand doth well extend it; Good then is only good when to our God we lend it!

And when the dead, by cruel tyrant's spite,

Lie out to rav'nous birds and beasts expos'd, His yearnful heart pitying that wretched sight, In seemly grave their weary flesh enclos'd, And strew'd with dainty flow'rs their lowly hearse; Then all alone the last words did rehearse, Bidding them softly sleep in his sad sighing verse.

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The shepherds, guarded from the sparkling heat
Of blazing air upon the flow'ry banks,

Where various flow'rs damask the fragrant seat,
And all the grove perfume, in wonted ranks
Securely sit them down, and sweetly play;
At length thus Thirsil ends his broken lay,
Lest that the stealing night his later song might stay.

Thrice, ah, thrice happy shepherd's life and state!
When courts are happiness' unhappy pawns!

His cottage low, and safely-humble gate

Shuts out proud fortune, with her scorns and fawns:
No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep;

Singing all day his flocks he learns to keep;
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.

No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread
Draw out their silken lives; nor silken pride:
His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need,
Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dy’d;

No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright;
Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite:
But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.

Instead of music and base flattering tongues,
Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise,
The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs,
And bird's sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes.
In country plays is all the strife he uses;

Or song or dance unto the rural muses,

And, but in music's sports, all difference refuses.

His certain life, that never can deceive him,*
Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content;
The smooth-leav'd beeches in the field receive him
With coolest shades 'till noon-tide's rage be spent ;
His life is neither tost in boist'rous seas

Of trackless world, nor lost in slothful ease; Pleas'd and full blest he lives, when he his God can please.

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*Had we omitted all other encomium on our author, the following passage, on this stanza and the following, from ISAAC WALTON, would have been enough:-"There came also into my mind at that time, certain verses in praise of a mean tate, and an humble mind; they were written by P. F. an excellent Divine and Angler; in which you shall see the picture of this good man's mind, and I wish mine to be like it." [Complete Angler, Part 1st ]

His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps,
While by his side his faithful spouse hath place;
His little son into his bosom creeps,

The lively picture of his father's face:

Never his humble house or state torment him;

Less he could like, if less his God had sent him; And when he dies, green turfs with grassy tomb content him.

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But see the day is ended with my song,

And sporting bathes with that fair ocean maid.
Stoop now thy wing my muse, now stoop thee

low;

Hence may thou freely play, and rest thee now; While here I hang my pipe upon the willow bough.

So up they rose, while all the shepherd throng
With their loud pipes a country triumph blew,
And led their Thirsil home with joyful song:
Meantime the lovely nymphs with garlands new,
His locks in bay and honour'd palm-tree bound,
With lilies set, and hyacinths around;

And Lord of all the year, and their May-sporting,

crown'd.

From the time of THEOCRITUS, who first sung the Songs of the Shepherds to the Grecian lyre, to ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, the pride of Suffolk plains, and if we mistake not, the only Pastoral Poet of the present day, numerous have been the writers of Idyls and Eclogues who have, more or less closely, adhered to the Sicilian model; nor, indeed, did Theocritus confine himself to one particular form or subject, but varied his characters from shepherd to fisher-swains, as his purpose or fancy led him. How far our Phineas has been indebted to him in the

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