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Gaya

Next morn I miss'd three hens, and our old cock,
And off the hedge two pinners and a smock.
I bore these losses with a Christian mind,
And no mishaps could feel, while thou wert kind;
But since, alas! I grew my Colin's fcorn,
I've known no pleasure night, or noon, or morn.
Help me, ye Gypsies! bring him home again,
And to a constant lass give back her swain.

Have I not late with thee full many a night,
When dying embers were our only light,
When ev'ry creature did in flumber lie,
Besides our cat, my Colin Clout and I?
No troublous thoughts the cat or Colin move,
While I alone am kept awake by Love.

Remember, Colin, when at last year's wake
I bought the costly present for thy fake,
Could it thou spell o'er the posie on thy knife,
And with another change thy state of life?
If thou forgett'st, I wot, I can repeat,
My memory can tell the verse fo sweet.
As this is grav'd upon this knife of thiné,
So is thy image on this heart of mine.
But woe is me! such presents luckless prove,
For knives, they tell me, always sever love.

Thus Marian wail'd, her eyes with tears brim.

full,

When Goody Dobbins brought her cow to bull.
With apron blue to dry her tears she sought,
Then saw the cow well ferv'd, and took a groats

Beisp. S. 1.8.

Pope.

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(Die diesem Dichter cigne Eleganz und geschmackvolle Xusfeilung seiner Arbeiten findet man auch in seinen vier, nach den Jahrszeiten benannten, Schäfergedichten, die der manier Theofrit's und noch mehr, Virgil's, nachgeahmt find. Aber eben diese Nachahmung führte ihn oft zu weit von der wahren, ländlichen Natur in eine allzu eingebildete Welt; er vermischte oft, wie Warton bemerkt, griechische und brittische Ideen und Bilder, und war überhaupt in dies sen Eklogen, die sonst einen sehr wohlklingenden Versbau haben, allzusehr Nachahmer. Vielleicht wäre er mehr Oris ginal geworden, wenn er feinen Vorsak, amerikanische Sches fergedichte zu schreiben, ausgeführt hätte. Und immer vers dienen auch jene vier Schäfergedichte noch fehr viel Lob, wenn man bedenkt, daß Pope sie in einem Alter von sechs zehn Jahren fchrieb, wodurch auch selbst die überall hervors schimmernde Begierde, klassische Literatur zu verrathen, sehr verzeihlich wird. Ungleich mehr Schönheiten hat indeß rei: ne hier beigefügte Ekloge, der Niesfias, bei der er, die, hier zu vergleichenden, Muster des Propheten Jesaias, Stap. LX, und Virgil's, in der Ekloge Pollio, vor Augen batte.)

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lyc. Thyrfis, the musick of that murm'ring

spring
Is not fo murnful as the strains you sing.
Nor rivers winding through the vales below,
So sweetly warble, or so smoothly flow.
Now sleeping flocks on their soft fleeces lie,
The moon, serene in glory, mounts the sky;

pope.

Whilft silent birds forget their tuneful lays
Oh sing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's

praise!

Gher. Behold the groves that shine with silver frost,

Their beauty wither'd and their verdure loft.
Here shall I try the sweet Alexis'strain,
That call’d the listning Dryads to the plain?
Thames heard the numbers as he flow'd along,
And bade his willows learn the moving song.

LYC. So may kind rains their vital moisture yield

And swell the future harvest of the field.
Begin; this charge the dying Daphne gave,
And said, „ye shepherds, fing around my gra-

ve!"
Sing, while beside the 1 haded tomb I mourn,
And with fresh bays het rural shrine adorn.

THYR, Ye gentle muses, leave your crystal spring,
Let nymphs and sylvans cypress garlands

bring;
Ye weeping loves, the stream with myrtles

hide,
And break your bows, as when Adonis dy'd :
And with your golden darts, now useless

grown,
Inscribe a verse on this relenting stone:
„Let nature change, let heav'n and earth de-

plore,
„Fair Daphne's dead, and love is now no mo-

re!
'Tis done, and Nature's various charms decay.
See gloomy clouds obscure the cheerful day!
Now hung with pearls the dropping trees ap-

pear,
Their faded honours scatter'd on her bier.
See, where on earth the flow'ry glories lie.
With her they flourish'd and with her they die.
Ah what avail the beauties Nature wore?

pope.

Fair Daphne's dead, and beauty is no more!
For her the flocks refuse their verdant food,
The thirsty heifers 1 hun the gliding flood
The filver swans her hapless fate bemoan
In notes more fad than when they fing their

own;
In hollow caves sweet Echo silent lies,
Silent, or only to her name replies;
Her name with pleasure once she taught the

fhore,
Now Daphne's dead and pleasure is no more!
No grateful dews descend from evning-fkies,
Nor morning odours from the flow'rs arise
No rich perfumes refresh the fruitful field,
Nor fragrant herbs their native incense yield.
The balmy zephyrs, silent fince her death,
Lament the ceasing of a swelter breath;
Th'industrious bees neglect their golden store!
Fair Daphne's dead, aud sweetnels is no more!

No more the mounting larks, while Daphne

sings,

Shall lift'ning in mid air suspend their wings;
No more the birds shall imitate her lays,
Or hush’d, with wonder, hearken from the

sprays:

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No more the streams their murmurs shall for

bear,
A sweeter music than their own to hear,
But tell the reeds, and tell the vocal i hore,
Fair Daphne's dead, and mufic is no more!

Her fate is whisper'd by the gentle breeze,
And told in sighs to all the trembling trees;
The trembling trees, in ev'ry plain and wood,
Her fate remurmur to the silver flood;
The silver flood, so lately calm, appears,
Swell’d with new passion, and o'erflows with

tears;
The winds, and trees, and foods her death de
plore,

Daphne, Pope.

Daphne, our grief! our glory now no more!
But see! where Daphne wond'ring mounts on

high
Above the clouds, above the starry sky!
Eternal beauties grace the shining scene,
Fields ever fresh, and groves for ever green!
There while you rest in amaranthine bow'rs,
Ör from those meads select unfading flow'rs,
Behold us kindly, who your name implore,
Daphne, our goddess, and our grief no more!

LYC. How all things listen, while thy muse com

plains!
Such filence waits on Philomela's strains,
In some still ev’ning, when the whisp'ring

breeze,
Pants on the leaves, and dies upon the trees.
To the bright goddess, oft a lamb shall bleed,
If teeming ewes increase my fleecy breed.
While plants their shade, or flow'rs their odours

give,
Thy name, thy honour, and thy praise shall

live!

THYR. But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews;

Arise, the pines a noxious shade diffuse;
Sharp Boreas blows, and Nature feels decay,
Time conquers all, and we must Time obey.
Adieu, ye vales, ye mountains, streams, and

groves;
Adieu, ye shepherds rural lays and loves;
Adieu, my flocks; farewell, ye fylvan crew;
Daphne, farewell; and all the world adieu!

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