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Boundless my verse, and roving be my ftrains,
Various as flow'rs on unfrequented plains.
And thou, Thalia! darling of my breast,
By whom infpir'd, I fung at Comus' feast,
While in a ring the jolly rural throng
Have fate and fmil'd to hear my chearful fong,
Be gone, with all thy mirth and sprightly lays!
My pipe no longer now thy pow'r obeys:
Learn to lament, my Mufe! to weep and mourn;
Thy fpringing laurels all to cypress turn;

Wound with thy dismal cries the tender air,

And beat thy fnowy breast and rend thy yellow hair:
Far hence, in utmoft wilds, thy dwelling chufe;
Be gone, Thalia! Sorrow is my muse.

• I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,

And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.'

No more these woods fhall with her fight be blefs'd,
Nor with her feet these flow'ry plains be press'd;
No more the winds fhall with her treffes play,
And from her balmy breath steal sweets away;
No more these rivers chearfully fhall pass,

Pleas'd to reflect the beauties of her face,

While on their banks the wond'ring flocks have ftood,
Greedy of fight, and negligent of food.

No more the nymphs fhall with soft tales delight
Her ears, no more with dances please her fight;
Nor ever more shall swain make song of mirth,
To blefs the joyous day that gave her birth:
Loft is that day, which had from her it's light,
For ever loft with her in endless night;

In endless night, and arms of Death, she lies;
Death in eternal fhades has fhut Paftora's eyes.
Lament, ye nymphs! and mourn, ye wretched fwains!
Stray, all ye flocks! and defart be, ye plains!
Sigh, all ye winds! and weep, ye crystal floods!
Fade, all ye flow'rs! and wither, all ye woods!

. I mourn

I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn, • And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.'

Within a dismal grot, which damps furround,
All cold the lies upon th' unwholesome ground;
The marble weeps, and with a filent pace
It's trickling tears diftil upon her face.
Falfely ye weep, ye rocks! and falfely mourn,
For never will you let the nymph return;
With a feign'd grief the faithlefs tomb relents,
And, like the crocodile, it's prey laments,

O fhe was heav'nly fair in face and mind!
Never in nature were fuch beauties join'd:
Without all shining, and within all white;
Pure to the sense, and pleafing to the fight;
Like fome rare flow'r, whofe leaves all colours yield,
And opening is with fweeteft odours fill'd.
As lofty pines o'ertop the lowly reed,

So did her graceful height all nymphs exceed
To which excelling height the bore a mind,
Humble as ofiers bending to the wind.
Thus excellent she was

Ah, wretched fate! he was, but is no more.
Help me, ye hills and valliés, to deplore!
• I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,
And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.'
From that blefs'd earth on which her body lies,
May blooming flow'rs with fragrant sweets arise !
Let myrrha, weeping aromatick gum,

And ever-living laurel, fhade her tomb!
Thither let all th' induftrious bees repair,.
Unlade their thighs, and leave their honey there!
Thither let fairies with their train refort,
Neglect their revels and their midnight fport;
There in unusual wailings wafte the night,
And watch her by the fiery glow-worm's light!
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There

There may no dismal yew nor cypress grow,
Nor holly-bufh, nor bitter elder's bough;
Let each unlucky bird far build his nest,
And diftant dens receive each howling beaft:
Let wolves be gone, be ravens put to flight,
With hooting owls, and bats, that hate the light!
But let the fighing doves their forrows bring,
And nightingales in fweet complainings fing;
Let fwans from their forfaken rivers fly,
And, fick'ning at her tomb, make haste to die,
That they may help to fing her elegy:
Let Echo, too, in mimick moan deplore,
And cry with me,
Paftora is no more!

'I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,
And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.'
And fee, the heav'ns to weep in dew prepare,
And heavy mifts obfcure the burden'd air;
A fudden damp o'er all the plain is fpread,
Each lily folds it's leaves, and hangs it's head;
On ev'ry tree the bloffoms turn to tears,
And ev'ry bough a weeping moisture bears;
Their wings the feather'd airy people droop,
And flocks beneath their dewy fleeces ftoop.

The rocks are cleft, and new-defcending rills
Furrow the brows of all th' impending hills;
The water-gods to floods their riv❜lets turn,

And each with ftreaming eyes fupplies his wanting urn.
The Fauns forfake the woods, the Nymphs the grove,

And round the plain in sad distractions rove ;
In prickly brakes their tender limbs they tear,

And leave on thorns their locks of golden hair.

With their fharp nails themfelves the Satyrs wound,

And tug their fhaggy beards, and bite with grief the ground. Lo, Pan himself, beneath a blasted oak

Dejected lies, his pipe in pieces broke:

See

See Pales weeping, too, in wild despair,
And to the piercing winds her bofom bare.
And fee yon fading myrtle, where appears
The Queen of Love, all bath'd in flowing tears;
See how the wrings her hands, and beats her breast,
And tears her useless girdle from her waist!
Hear the fad murmurs of her fighing doves;
For grief they figh, forgetful of their loves!
Lo, Love himself, with heavy woes opprefs'd
See how his forrows fwell his tender breast!
His bow he breaks, and wide his arrows flings,
And folds his little arms, and hangs his drooping wings;
Then lays his limbs upon the dying grass,

And all with tears bedews his beauteous face:
With tears, which from his folded lids arise ;
And even Love himself has weeping eyes.
All nature mourns; the floods and rocks deplore,
And
cry with me, Paftora is no more!

I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,
And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.'

The rocks can melt, and air in mifts can mourn,
And floods can weep, and winds to fighs can turn;
The birds in fongs their forrows can disclose,
And nymphs and fwains in words can tell their woes :
But, oh! behold that deep and wild defpair
Which neither winds can fhow, nor floods, nor air.
See the great Shepherd, chief of all the fwains,
Lord of these woods and wide-extended plains,
Stretch'd on the ground, and close to earth his face,
Scalding with tears th' already faded grass;
To the cold clay he joins his throbbing breast,
No more within Paftora's arms to reft!

No more for those once soft and circling arms
Themselves are clay, and cold are all her charms
Cold are thofe lips, which he no more must kiss,
And cold that bofom, once all downy blifs;
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On

On whofe foft pillows, lull'd in sweet delights,
Hè us'd in balmy fleep to lofe the nights.

Ah! where is all that love and fondnefs fled
Ah! where is all that tender fweetness laid?
To duft must all that heav'n of beauty come!
And must Pastora moulder in the tomb!.
Ah, Death! more fierce and unrelenting far
Than wildeft wolves or favage tigers are ;
With lambs and fheep their hungers are appeas'd,
But rav'nous Death the Shepherdess has seiz’d.
• I mourn Paftora dead; let Albion mourn,
• And fable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn.'

But fee, Menalcas, where a fudden light
With wonder ftops my fong and ftrikes my fight!
And where Paftora lies it fpreads around,
Shewing all radiant bright the facred ground;
While from her tomb behold a flame afcends
Of whiteft fire, whose flight to heav'n extends!
On flaky wings it mounts, and quick as fight,
Cuts thro' the yielding air with rays of light;
Till the blue firmament at laft it gains,
And fixing there, a glorious star remains :
Faireft it fhines of all that light the skies,
As once on earth were seen Paftora's eyes.'

I

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N Britain's ifle, and Arthur's days,

When midnight fairies daunc'd the maze,

Liv'd Edwin of the green;

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