'Tis his with mock passion to glow;

"Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, How her face is as bright as the snow, And her bosom, be sure, is as cold: How the nightingales labour the strain, With the notes of his charmer to vie ; How they vary their accents in vain, Repine at her triumphs, and die.

To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
O Phyllis, he whispers, more fair,

More sweet than the jessamin's flow'r!
What are pinks, in a morn, to compare ?
What is eglantine, after a show'r?

Then the lily no longer is white;

Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom;

Then the violets die with despight,

And the woodbines give up their perfume.

Thus glide the soft numbers along,

And he fancies no shepherd his peer;

Yet I never should envy the song,

Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.

Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,
So Phyllis the trophy despise ;

Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue;

Yet may she beware of his art,
Or sure I must envy the song.

YE

IV. DISAPPOINTMENT.

E shepherds give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my sheep:
They have nothing to do, but to stray;
I have nothing to do, but to weep.
Yet do not my folly reprove;

She was fair, and my passion begun ;
She smil❜d, and I could not but love;
She is faithless, and I am undone.

Perhaps I was void of all thought;
Perhaps it was plain to foresee,

That a nymph so complete would be sought
By a swain more engaging than me.
Ah! love ev'ry hope can inspire:
It banishes wisdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire

Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.

She is faithless, and I am undone ;
Ye that witness the woes I endure,
Let reason instruct you to shun

What it cannot instruct you to cure. Beware how you loiter in vain

Amid nymphs of an higher degree: It is not for me to explain

How fair, and how fickle they be.

Alas! from the day that we met,
What hope of an end to my woes?
When I cannot endure to forget

The glance that undid my repose.
Yet time may diminish the pain:

The flower, the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, In time may have comfort for me.

The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,

The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows,

Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shewn to the sight, But we are not to find them our own; Fate never bestow'd such delight, As I with my Phyllis had known.

T

O ye woods, spread your branches apace;
To your deepest recesses I fly;

I would hide with the beasts of the chace;
I would vanish from every eye.

Yet my reed shall resound thro' the grove
With the same sad complaint it begun ;
How she smil'd, and I could not but love;
Was faithless, and I am undone !

To the Memory of William Shenstone, Esq.

[BY CUNNINGHAM.]

COME, shepherds, we'll follow the hearse,

And see our lov❜d Corydon laid :
Tho' sorrow may blemish the verse,
Yet let the sad tribute be paid.
They call'd him the pride of the plain :
In sooth, he was gentle and kind;
He mark'd in his elegant strain,

The graces that glow'd in his mind.

7

On purpose he planted yon trees,

That birds in the covert might dwell; He cultur'd the thyme for the bees, But never would rifle their cell. Ye lambkins that play'd at his feet, Go bleat, and your master bemoan : His music was artless and sweet,

His manners as mild as your own.

No verdure shall cover the vale,

No bloom on the blossoms appear;
The sweets of the forest shall fail,
And winter discolour the year.
No birds in our hedges shall sing,
(Our hedges so vocal before)

Since he that should welcome the spring,
Can greet the gay season no more.

His Phyllis was fond of his praise,
And poets came round in a throng;

They listen'd, and envied his lays,

But which of them equall'd his song? Ye shepherds, henceforward be mute, For lost is the pastoral strain ; So give me my Corydon's flute,

And thus-let me break it in twain.