Now much he meditates if yet to speak, But fure,' quoth he, my feely heart will break, At length, by hope embolden'd to reveal, Whiles frequent fingults check'd his falt'ring tale, In modeft wife her head Paftora hong: For never maid more chafte infpired fhepherd's fong. What needs me to recount, in long detail, Eftfoons to Lycon fwift the youth did fare, (Lagg'd ever youth when Cupid urg'd his way?) Be thine, Paftora,' quoth the masker fly, • And twice two thousand sheep her dower shall pay.' Beat then the lover's heart with joyaunce high; Ne dempt that aught his blifs could now betray," Ne guefs'd that foul deceit in Lycon's bosome lay. So forth he yode to feek his reverend fire; (The good Euphormius, fhepherds him did call) How fweet Paftora did his bofome fire! Her worth, her pramis'd flocks, he tolden all < Ah! Ah! nere, my fon, let Lycon thee enthrall;* Reply'd the fage, in wife experience old; Smooth is his tongue, but full of guile withal, In promise faithlefs, and in vaunting bold: • Ne ever lamb of his will bleat within thy fold.' With words prophetick thus Euphormius spake: Framing new trains when nought mote serve his old. Should fooner down the lowly delve be roll'd,' Whiles thus the tedious funs had journey'd round, Each god approv'd, and close the bands were ty'd; But prying eyne of Lycon 'twas in vain (Right practick in difguife) to hope beware. He trac'd their covert fteps to Hymen's fane, And joy'd to find them in his long-laid fnare. Algates, in femblaunt ire, he 'gan to fwear, And roaren loud as in difpleafaunce high; Then out he hurlen forth his daughter fair, Forelore, the houseless child of Misery, Expos'd to killing cold, and pinching penury. Ah! 1 Ah! whither now fhall fad Paftora wend, To want abandon'd and by wrongs opprefs'd? Who fhall the wretched out-caft's teen befriend? Lives Mercy then, if not in parent's breast? Yes, Mercy lives, the gentle goddess blefs'd, At Jove's right-hand, to Jove for ever dear; Aye at his feet fhe pleads the caufe diftrefs'd, To forrow's plaints she turns his equal ear, And wafts to heaven's ftar-throne fair Virtue's filent tear. 'Twas SHE that bade Euphormius quell each thought, That well mote rife to check his generous aid : Tho' high the torts which Lycon him had wrought, Tho' few the flocks his humble pastures fed, When as he learn'd Paftora's hapless sted, His breaft humane with wonted pity flows; He op'd his gates, the naked exile led Beneath his roof, à decent drapet throws O'er her cold limbs, and foothes her undeferved woes. Now loud-tongu'd Rumor bruited round the tale; A faytor falfe as Lycon e'er did live: But Jove (who in high heaven does mortals prive, And every deed in golden ballance weighs) To earth his flaming charret baden drive, And down defcends, enwrapt in peerless blaze, To deal forth guerdon meet to good and evil ways. Where Eurymanthus, crown'd with many a wood, His filver ftream through daify'd vales does lead, Stretch'd on the flowery marge, in reckless mood, Proud Lycon fought by charm of jocund reed To lull the dire remorfe of tortious deed; With lofty eyne, half loth to look fo low, Him Lycon view'd, and with swol'n furquedry And Know, falfe man,' the lord of thunders faid, Go! be in form that beft befeems thy thews, array'd.' Whiles yet he spake th' affrayed trembling wight The horrid haunt of favage monsters foul: Thief of the bleating fold, and fhepherd's dire difmay. Tho' Jove to good Euphormius' cot did wend, Him Jove approaching in mild majesty, Greeted all hail! then bade him join the throng Of glitt'rand lights that gild the glowing sky: There fhepherd's nightly view his orb yhong, Where bright he fhines eterne, the brighteft ftars emong. LOVE ELEGIES. BY MR. HAMMOND. ELEGY I. AREWEL that liberty our fathers gave; they gave, & in vain! I faw Neæra; and, her inftant flave, Tho' born a Briton, hugg'd the fervile chain, Her ufage well repays my coward heart! Oh! that, to feel these killing pangs no more, Adieu, ye Mufes-or my paffion aid; Why should I loiter by your idle spring? My humble voice would move one only maid, And she contemns the trifles which I fing! I do not ask the lofty Epick ftrain, Nor strive to paint the wonders of the sphere: No more in useless innocence I'll pine: Since guilty prefents win the greedy fair, I'll tear it's honours from the broken fhrine ; |