Small caufe, I ween, has lufty youth to plain :
Or who may, then, the weight of eld fustain,
When every flackening nerve begins to fail,
And the load preffeth as our days prevail?
Yet, though with years my body downward tend,
As trees beneath their fruit, in autumn, bend;
Spite of my fnowy head, and icy veins,
My mind a chearful temper ftill retains:
And why should man, mishap what will, repine,
Sour every sweet, and mix with tears his wine?
But tell me, then it may relieve thy woe,
To let a friend thine inward ailment know.
Idly 'twill wafte thee, Thenot, the whole day,
Shouldst thou give ear to all my grief can say.
Thine ewes will wander; and the heedless lambs,
In loud complaints, require their abfent dams.
THEN O т.
See Lightfoot; he fhall tend them close and I,
"Tween whiles, across the plain will glance mine eye.
COLINE T.
Where to begin I know not, where to end.
Does there one smiling hour my youth attend!
Though few my days, as well my follies fhow,
Yet are those days all clouded o'er with woe:
No happy gleam of funshine doth appear,
My lowering sky, and wintery months, to cheer. 40 My piteous plight in yonder naked tree,
Which bears the thunder-fcar, too plain I fee:
Quite deftitute it ftands of shelter kind,
The mark of ftorms, and sport of every wind:
The riven trunk feels not th' approach of fpring;
Nor birds among the leafless branches fing:
No more, beneath thy fhade, shall shepherds throng, With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleasing song.
Ill-fated tree! and more ill-fated I!
From thee, from me, alike the thepherds fly.
THEN о т.
Sure thou in hapless hour of time wast born,
When blighting mildews spoil the rifing corn,
Or blasting winds o'er blossom'd hedge-rows pass,
To kill the promis'd fruits, and fcorch the grafs,
Or when the moon, by wizard charm'd, foreshows,
Blood-ftain'd in foul eclipfe, impending woes.
Untimely born, ill-luck betides thee still.
And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill?
Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our sheep,
From this good shepherd's care his flock may keep : 60 Against ill-luck, alas! all forecast fails;
Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, avails.
Ah me, the while! ah me, the luckless day!
Ah, lucklefs lad! befits me more to say.
Unhappy hour! when, fresh in youthful bud,
I left, Sabrina fair, thy filvery flood.
Ah, filly I more filly than my sheep,
Which on thy flowery banks I wont to keep.
Sweet are thy banks! Oh, when fhall I, once more,
With ravish'd eyes review thine amell'd shore ?
When, in the crystal of thy water, scan
Each feature faded, and my colour wan?
When fhall I fee my hut, the small abode
Myfelf did raife, and cover o'er with fod?
Small though it be, a mean and humble cell,
Yet is there room for peace and me to dwell.
THEN O т.
And what enticement charm'd thee, far away
From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart aftray?
COLINE T.
A lewd defire, ftrange lads and fwains to know:
Ah, God! that ever I should covet woe!
With wandering feet unbleft, and fond of fame,
I fought I know not what befides a name.
Or, footh to fay, didst thou not hither roam
In fearch of gains more plenty than at home?
A rolling-ftone is, ever, bare of mofs;
And, to their coft, green years old proverbs cross.
COLINE T.
Small need there was, in random fearch of gain,
To drive my pining flock athwart the plain,
To diftant Cam. Fine gain at length, I trow,
To hoard up to myself fuch deal of woe!
My theep quite spent, through travel and ill-fare,
And, like their keeper, ragged grown and bare,
The damp, cold greenfward, for my nightly bed,
And fome flant willow's trunk to reft my head.
Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain;
And hard is want to the unpractis'd swain:
But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard,
To blafting ftorms of calumny compar'd:
Unkind as hail it falls; the pelting shower
Destroys the tender herb, and budding flower.
Τ Η Ε Ν Ο Τ.
Slander we fhepherds count the vilest wrong:
And what wounds forer than an evil tongue
Untoward lads, the wanton imps of spite,
Make mock of all the ditties I indite.
In vain, O Colinet, thy pipe, fo fhrill,
Charms every vale, and gladdens every hill:
In vain thou feek'ft the coverings of the grove,
In the cool shade to fing the pains of love:
Sing what thou wilt, ill-nature will prevail;
And every elf hath skill enough to rail:
But yet, though poor and artlefs be my vein,
Menalcas feems to like my fimple ftrain:
And, while that he delighteth in my fong,
Which to the good Menalcas doth belong,
Nor night, nor day, fhall my rude mufic ceafe;
I ask no more, fo I Menalcas please.
Menalcas, lord of these fair fertile plains,
Preferves the sheep, and o'er the fhepherds reigns:
For him our yearly wakes, and feasts, we hold,
And choose the fairest firstling from the fold:
He, good to all, who good deserve, shall give
Thy flock to feed, and thee at ease to live,
Shall curb the malice of unbridled tongues,
And bounteously reward thy rural songs.
First, then, fhall lightsome birds forget to fly,
The briny ocean turn to paftures dry,
And every rapid river ceafe to flow,
Ere I unmindful of Menalcas grow.
This night thy care with me forget; and fold
Thy flock with mine, to ward th' injurious cold.
New milk, and clouted cream, mild cheese and curd,
With fome remaining fruit of laft year's hoard,
Shall be our evening fare, and, for the night,
Sweet herbs and mofs, which gentle fleep invite:
And now behold the fun's departing ray,
O'er yonder hill, the fign of ebbing day :
With fongs the jovial hinds return from plow;
And unyok'd heifers, loitering homeward, low.
7HEN Virgil thought no fhame the Doric reed
To tune, and flocks on Mantuan plains to feed, With young Augustus' name he grac'd his song : And Spenfer, when amid the rural throng
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