WINTER:

THE FOURTH PASTORAL

OR,
DAPHNE.

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. TEMPEST.*

LYCIDAS.

THYRSIS, the music of that murmuring spring
Is not so mournful 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.
While silent birds forget their tuneful lays,
O, sing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's praise!

THYRSIS.

Behold the groves that shine with silver frost,
Their beauty wither'd, and their verdure lost! 10
Here shall I try the sweet Alexis' strain,
That call'd the listening Dryads to the plain?
Thames heard the numbers as he flow'd along,
And bade his willows learn the moving song.

LYCIDAS.

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, sing around my grave!'
Sing, while beside the shaded tomb I mourn,
And with fresh bays her rural shrine adorn.

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* The unmarried daughter of Sir John Tempest, Bart., descended from an old Yorkshire family. She died 1703.

THYRSIS.

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 died! And with your golden darts, now useless grown, Inscribe a verse on this relenting stone :'Let nature change, let heaven and earth deplore ; Fair Daphne's dead, and love is now no more!'

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"Tis done and nature's various charms decay: See gloomy clouds obscure the cheerful day! Now hung with pearls the dropping trees appear, Their faded honours scatter'd on her bier. See, where on earth the flowery glories lie ; With her they flourish'd, and with her they die. Ah, what avail the beauties nature wore? Fair Daphne's dead, and beauty is no more! For her the flocks refuse their verdant food; The thirsty heifers shun the gliding flood; The silver swans her hapless fate bemoan, In notes more sad than when they sing their own: In hollow caves sweet Echo silent lies; Silent, or only to her name replies : Her name with pleasure once she taught the shore: Now Daphne's dead, and pleasure is no more! No grateful dews descend from evening skies, Nor morning odours from the flowers arise; No rich perfumes 1efresh the fruitful field, Nor fragrant herbs their native incense yield: The balmy zephyrs, silent since her death, Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath; The industrious bees neglect their golden store: Fair Daphne's dead, and sweetness is no more!

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No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings, Shall listening in mid-air suspend their wings; No more the birds shall imitate her lays; Or, hush'd with wonder, hearken from the sprays: No more the streams their murmurs shall forbear, A sweeter music than their own to hear;

But tell the reeds, and tell the vocal shore,
Fair Daphne's dead, and music is no more!

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Her fate is whisper'd by the gentle breeze, And told in sighs to all the trembling trees; The trembling trees, in every plain and wood, Her fate re-murmur 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 floods her death deplore: Daphne, our grief, our glory now no more!

But see, where Daphne wondering 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 bowers,
Or from those meads select unfading flowers,
Behold us kindly, who your name implore;
Daphne, our goddess, and our grief no more!

LYCIDAS.

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How all things listen while thy Muse complains! Such silence waits on Philomela's strains, In some still evening, when the whispering breeze Pants on the leaves, and dies upon the trees. To thee, bright goddess, oft a lamb shall bleed, If teeming ewes increase my fleecy breed. While plants their shade, or flowers their odours give,

Thy name, thy honour, and thy praise shall live!

THYRSIS.

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 sylvan crew; Daphne, farewell; and all the world, adieu!

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WINDSOR FOREST.*

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
GEORGE LORD LANSDOWNE.

THY forest, Windsor and thy green retreats,
At once the monarch's and the Muse's seats,
Invite my lays. Be present, sylvan maids!
Unlock your springs, and open all your shades.
Granville commands; your aid, O Muses, bring!
What Muse for Granville can refuse to sing?

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The groves of Eden, vanish'd now so long, Live in description, and look green in song: These, were my breast inspired with equal flame, Like them in beauty, should be like in fame. Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain, Here earth and water seem to strive again; Not chaos-like together crush'd and bruised; But, as the world, harmoniously confused: Where order in variety we see;

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And where, though all things differ, all agree.
Here waving groves a chequer'd scene display,
And part admit, and part exclude the day;
As some coy nymph her lover's warm address
Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress :
There, interspersed in lawns and opening glades,
Thin trees arise that shun each other's shades.
Here in full light the russet plains extend:
There wrapp'd in clouds the bluish hills ascend.
E'en the wild heath displays her purple dyes,
And 'midst the desert fruitful fields arise,

* The first part of this poem was written in 1704, and the latter part added in 1713, in which year it was first published.

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