Ye Mantuan nymphs, your sacred succour bring, Hylas and Ægon's rural lays I sing. Thou, whom the nine with Plautus' wit inspire, The art of Terence, and Menander's fire; Whose sense instructs us, and whose humour charms, Whose judgment sways us, and whose spirit warms! O, skill'd in nature! see the hearts of swains, Their artless passions, and their tender pains. Now setting Phoebus shone serenely bright, And fleecy clouds were streak'd with purple light; When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan, Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan. Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! To Delia's ear the tender notes convey. As some sad turtle his lost love deplores, And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores; Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn, Alike unheard, unpitied, and forlorn. Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along! For her, the feather'd quires neglect their song; For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny; For her, the lilies hang their heads and die. Ye flowers that droop, forsaken by the spring, Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing, Ye trees, that fade when autumn-heats remove, Say, is not absence death to those who love? Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! Curs'd be the fields that cause my Delia's stay: Fade every blossom, wither every tree, Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along! The birds shall cease to tune their evening song, The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move, And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love. Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain, Not balmy sleep to labourers faint with pain, Not showers to larks, nor sunshine to the bee, Are half so charming as thy sight to me. Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay? Through rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds, Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds. Ye powers, what pleasing frenzy soothes my mind! Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind? She comes, my Delia comes !-Now cease my lay, And cease, ye gales, to bear my sighs away! Next Egon sung, while Windsor-groves admir'd: Rehearse, ye Muses, what yourselves inspir'd. Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! Of perjur❜d Doris dying I complain : Here where the mountains, lessening as they rise, Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies: While labouring oxen, spent with toil and heat, boughs: The garlands fade, the vows are worn away; Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! The shepherds cry, "Thy flocks are left a prey❞— Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep, Who lost my heart while I preserv'd my sheep Pan came, and ask'd, "What magic caus'd my smart, Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart?" What eyes but hers, alas, have power to move! And is there magic but what dwells in love! Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains! I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flowery plains; From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove, Forsake mankind, and all the world-but love! I know thee, Love! on foreign mountains bred, IV. WINTER; OR, DAPHNE. TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. TEMPEST.1 LYCIDAS. THYRSIS! the music of that murmuring spring A lady of an ancient family in Yorkshire, and a friend of Pope's early patron, Walsh. While silent birds forget their tuneful lays, THYRSIS. Behold the groves that shine with silver frost, LYCIDAS. So may kind rains their vital moisture yield, Begin this charge the dying Daphne gave, : And said, "Ye shepherds, sing around my grave!" Sing, while beside the shaded tomb I mourn, And with fresh bays her rural shrine adorn. THYRSIS. Ye gentle Muses, leave your crystal spring, |