Some new pieces never before publish'd by the author of the Satyrs upon the Jesuites.

Two Pastorals out of the Greek. BION.

A Pastoral, in Imitation of the Greek of Moschus, bewailing the Death of the Earl of ROCHESTER.

MOurn all ye Groves, in darker shades be seen, Let Groans be heard, where gentle Winds have been: Ye Albion Rivers, weep your Fountains dry, And all ye Plants your moisture spend, and die: Ye melancholy Flowers, which once were Men, Lament, until you be transform'd agen: Let every Rose pale as the Lilly be, And Winter Frost seize the Avemone:

But thou, O Hyacinth, more vigorous grow In mourniul Letters thy sad glory show, Enlarge thy grief, and flourish in thy wo: For Bion, the beloved Bion's dead, His voice is gone, his tuneful breath is fled. Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse. Mourn ye sweet Nightingales in the thick Woods, Tell the sad news to all the British Floods: See it to Isis, and to Cham convey'd, To Thames, to Humber, and to utmost Tweed: Annd bid them waft the bitter tidings on, How Bion's dead, how the lov'd Swain is gone, And with him all the Art of graceful Song. Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse. Ye gentle Swans, that haunt the Brooks, and Springs, Pine with sad grief, and droop your sickly Wings:

In doleful notes the heavy loss bewail, Such as you sing at your own Funeral, Such as you sung when your lov'd Orpheus fell. Tell it it to all the Rivers, Hills, and Plains, Tell it to all the British Nymphs and Swains, And bid them too the dismal tydings spread Of Bion's fate, of England's Orpheus dead, Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse. No more, alas! no more that lovely Swain Charms with his tuneful Pipe the wondring Plain: Ceast are those Lays, ceast are those sprightly airs, That woo'd our Souls into our ravish'd Ears: For which the list'ning streams forgot to run, And Trees lean'd their attentive branches down: While the glad Hills, loth the sweet sounds to lose, Lengthen'd in Echoes every heav'nly close. Down to the melancholy Shades he's gone, And there to Lethe's Banks reports his moan:

Nothing is heard upon the Mountains now But pensive Herds that for their Master low: Stragling and comfortless about they rove, Unmindful of their Pasture, and their Love. Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse, With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse. For thee, dear Swain, for thee, his much-lov'd Son, Does Phoebus Clouds of mourning black put on: For thee the Satyrs and the rustick Fauns Sigh and lament through all the Woods and Lawns: For thee the Fairies grieve, and cease to dance In sportful Rings by night upon the Plains: The water Nymphs alike thy absence mourn, And all their Springs to tears and sorrow turn: Sad Eccho too does in deep silence moan, Since thou art mute, since thou art speechless grown: She finds nought worth her pains to imitate, Now thy sweet breath's stopt by untimely fate: Trees drop their Leaves to dress thy Funeral, And all their Fruit before its Autumn fall:

Each Flower fades, and hangs its wither'd head, And scorns to thrive, or live, now thou art dead▪ Their bleating Flocks no more their Udders fill, The painful Bees neglect their wonted toil: Alas! what boots it now their Hives to store With the rich spoils of every plunder'd Flower, when thou, that wast all sweetness, art no more? Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse, With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse. Ne'r did the Dolphins on the lonely Shore In such loud plaints utter their grief before: Never in such sad Notes did Philomel To the relenting Rocks her sorrow tell: Ne'r on the Beech did poor Alcyone So weep, when she her floating Lover saw: Nor that dead Lover, to a Sea-fowl turn'd, Upon those Waves, where he was drown'd, so mourn'd: Nor did the Bird of Memnon with such grief Bedew those Ashes, which late gave him life:

As they did now with vying grief bewail, As they did all lament dear Bion's fall. Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse. In every Wood, on every Tree, and Bush The Lark, the Linnet, Nightingale, and Thrush, And all the seather'd Choir, that us'd to throng In list'ning Flocks to learn his well-tun'd Song. Now each in the sad Consort bear a part, And with kind Notes repay their Teachers Art: Ye Turtles too (I charge you) here assist, Let not your murmurs in the crowd be mist: To the dear Swain do not ungrateful prove, That taught you how to sing, and how to love. Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse, Whom hast thou left behind thee, skilful Swain, That dares aspire to reach thy matchless strain?

Who is there after thee, that dares pretend Rashly to take thy warbling Pipe in hand? Thy Notes remain yet fresh in every ear, And give us all delight, and all despair: Pleas'd Eccho still does on them meditate, And to the whistling Reeds their sounds repeat. Pan only e're can equal thee in Song, That task does only to great Pan belong: But Pan himself perhaps will fear to try, Will fear perhaps to be out-done by thee. Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse. Fair Galatea too laments thy death, Laments the ceasing of thy tuneful breath: Oft she, kind Nymph, resorted heretofore To hear thy artful measures from the shore: Not harsh like the rude Cyclops were thy lays, Whose grating sounds did her soft ears displease: Such was the force of thy enchanting tongue, That she for ever could have heard thy Song;

And chid the hours, that did so swiftly run, And thought the Sun too hasty to go down, Now does that lovely Nereid for thy sake The Sea, and all her fellow Nymphs forsake: Pensive upon the Beach, she sits alone, And kindly tends the Flocks from which thou'rt gone. Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse. With thee, sweet Bion, all the grace of Song, And all the Muses boasted Art is gone: Mute is thy Voice, which could all hearts command, Whose pow'r no Shepherdess could e're withstand: All the soft weeping Loves about thee moan, At once their Mothers darling, and their own: Dearer wast thou to Venus than her Loves, Than her charm'd Girdle, than her faithful Doves, Than the last gasping Kisses, which in death Adonis gave, and with them gave his breath.

This, Thames, ah! this is now the second loss. For which in tears thy weeping Current flows: Spencer, the Muses glory, went before, He pass'd long since to the Elysian shore: For him (they say) for him, thy dear-lov'd Son, Thy Waves did long in sobbing murmurs groan, Long fill'd the Sea with their complaint, and moan: But now, alas! thou do'st afresh bewail, Another Son does now thy sorrow call: To part with either thou alike wast loth, Both dear to Thee, dear to the Fountains both: He largely drank the Rills of sacred Cham, And this no less of Isis nobler stream: He sung of Hero's, and of hardy Knights Far-fam'd in Battels, and renown'd Exploits: This meddled not with bloudy Fights, and Wars, Pan was his Song, and Shepherds harmless jars, Loves peaceful combats, and its gentle cares.

Love ever was the subject of his Lays, And his soft Lays did Venus ever please. Come all ye Muses, come adorn the Shepherd's Herse With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse. Thou, sacred Bion, art lamented more Than all our tuneful Bards, that dy'd before: Old Chaucer, who first taught the use of Verse, No longer has the tribute of our tears: Milton, whose Muse with such a daring flight Led out the warring Seraphims to fight: Blest Cowley too, who on the banks of Cham So sweetly sigh'd his wrongs, and told his flame: And He, whose Song rais'd Cooper's Hill so high, As made its glory with Parnassus vie: And soft Orinda, whose bright shining name Stands next great Sappho's in the ranks of fame: All now unwept, and unrelented pass, And in our grief no longer share a place:

Bion alone does all our tears engross, Our tears are all too few for Bion's loss. Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse. Thee all the Herdsmen mourn in gentlest Lays, And rival one another in thy praise: In spreading Letters they engrave thy Name On every Bark, that's worthy of the same: Thy Name is warbled forth by every tongue, Thy Name the Burthen of each Shepherds Song: Waller, the sweet'st of living Bards, prepares For thee his tender'st, and his mournfull'st airs, And I, the meanest of the British-Swains, Amongst the rest offer these humble strains: If I am reckon'd not unblest in Song, 'Tis what I ow to thy all-teaching tongue: Some of thy Art, some of thy tuneful breath Thou didst by Will to worthless me bequeath:

Others thy Flocks, thy Lands, thy Riches have, To me thou didst thy Pipe, and Skill vouchsafe. Come all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse. Alas! by what ill Fate, to man unkind, Were we to so severe a lot design'd? The meanest Flowers which the Gardens yield, The vilest Weeds that flourish in the Field, Which must e're long lie dead in Winter's Snow, Shall spring again, again more vigorous grow: Yon Sun, and this bright glory of the day, Which night is hasting now to snatch away, Shall rise anew more shining and more gay: But wretched we must harder measure find, The great'st, the brav'st, the witti'st of mankind, When Death has once put out their light, in vain Ever expect the dawn of Life again: In the dark Grave insensible they lie, And there sleep out endless Eternity.

There thou to silence ever art confin'd, While less deserving Swains are left behind: So please the Fates to deal with us below, They cull out thee, and let dull Moevius go: Moevius still lives; still let him live for me, He, and his Pipe shall ne'r my envy be: None e're that heard thy sweet, thy Artful Tongue, Will grate their ears with his rough untun'd Song▪ Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's. Herse With never-fading Garlands, never-dying Verse. A fierce Disease, sent by ungentle Death, Snatch'd Bion hence, and stop'd his hallow'd breath: A fatal damp put out that heav'nly fire, That sacred heat which did his breast inspire. Ah! what malignant ill could boast that pow'r, Which his sweet voice's Magick could not cure? Ah cruel Fate! how could'st thou chuse-but spare? How could'st thou exercise thy rigour here? Would thou hadst thrown thy Dart at worthless me, And let this dear, this valued life go free:

Better ten thousand meaner Swains had dy'd, Than this best work of Nature been destroy'd. Come, all ye Muses, come, adorn the Shepherd's Herse. With never-fading Garlands, never dying Verse. Ah! would kind Death alike had sent me hence; But grief shall do the work, and save its pains: Grief shall accomplish my desired doom, And soon dispatch me to Elysium: There, Bion, would I be, there gladly know, How with thy voice thou charm'st the shades be∣low. Sing, Shepherd, sing one of thy strains divine, Such as may melt the fierce Elysian Queen: She once her self was pleas'd with tuneful strains, And sung, and danc'd on the Sicilian Plains: Fear not, thy Song should unsuccessful prove, Fear not, but 'twill the pitying Goddess move: She once was won by Orpheus heav'nly Lays, And gave his fair Eurydice release.

And thine as pow'rful (question not, dear Swain) Shall bring thee back to these glad Hills again. Ev'n I my self, did I at all excel, Would try the utmost of my voice and skill, Would try to move the rigid King of Hell.

The Lamentation for ADONIS. Imitated out of the Greek of Bion of Smyrna. PASTORAL.

I Mourn Adonis, fair Adonis dead, He's dead, and all that's lovely, with him fled: Come all ye Loves, come hither and bemoan The charming sweet Adonis dead and gone: Rise from thy Purple Bed, and rich Alcove, Throw off thy gay attire, great Queen of Love: Henceforth in sad and mournful weeds appear, And all the marks of grief, and sorrow wear,

And tear thy locks, and beat thy panting breast, And cry, My dear Adonis is deceast. I mourn Adonis, the soft Loves bemoan The gentle sweet Adonis dead and gone. On the cold Mountain lies the wretched Youth, Kill'd by a Savage Boar's unpitying tooth: In his white thigh the fatal stroke is found, Nor whiter was that tooth, that gave the wound: From the wide wound fast flows the streaming gore And stains that skin which was all snow before: His breath with quick short tremblings comes and goes, And Death his fainting eyes begins to close: From his pale lips the ruddy colour's fled, Fled, and has left his kisses cold and dead: Yet Venus never will his kisses leave, The Goddess ever to his lips will cleave: The kiss of her dear Youth does please her still, But her poor Youth does not the pleasure feel: Dead he feels not her love, feels not her grief. Feels not her kiss, which might ev'n life retrieve.

I mourn Adonis the sad Loves bemoan The comely fair Adonis dead and gone. Deep in his Thigh, deep went the killing smart, But deeper far it goes in Venus heart: His faithful Dogs about the Mountain yell, And the hard Fate of their dead Master tell: The troubled Nymphs alike in doleful strains Proclaim his death through all the Fields & Plains: But the sad Goddess, most of all forlorn, With love distracted, and with sorrow torn, Wild in her look, and ruful in her air, With Garmonts rent, and with dishevel'd hair, Through Brakes, through Thickets, and through pathless ways, Through Woods, through Haunts, and Dens of Savages, Undrest, unshod, careless of Honour, Fame, And Danger, flies, and calls on his loy'd name. Rude Brambles, as she goes, her body tear, And her cut feet with bloud the stones besmear.

She thoughtless of the unfelt smart flies on, And fills the Woods, and Vallies with her moan, Loudly does on the Stars and Fates complain, And prays them give Adonis back again: But he, alass! the wretched Youth, alas! Lies cold, and stiff, extended on the grass: There lies he steep'd in gore, there lies he drown'd, In purple streams, that gush from his own wound.

All the soft band of Loves their Mother mourn, At once of beauty, and of love forlorn. Venus has lost her Lover, and each grace, That sate before in triumph in her face, By grief chas'd thence, has now forsook the place. That day which snatch'd Adonis from her arms, That day bereft the Goddess of her charms. The Woods and Trees in murmuring sighs be∣moan The fate of her Adonis dead and gone. The Rivers too, as if they would deplore His death, with grief swell higher than before:

The Flowers weep in tears of dreary dew, And by their drooping heads their sorrow shew: But most the Cyprian Queen with shrieks, and groans, Fills all the neighb'ring Hills, and Vales, and Towns: The poor Adonis dead! is all her cry, Adonis dead! sad Eccho does reply.

What cruel heart would not the Queen of Love To melting tears, and soft compassion move, When she saw how her wretched Lover fell, Saw his deep wound, saw it incurable? Soon as her eyes his bleeding wounds survey'd, With eager clips she did his Limbs invade, And these soft, tender, mournful things she said:

"Whither, O whither fli'st thou, wretched Boy, "Stay my Adonis, stay my only joy, "O stay, unhappy Youth, at least till I "With one kind word bespeak thee, e're thou die, "Till I once more embrace thee, till I seal "Upon thy dying lips my last farewel.

"Look up one minute, give one parting kiss, "One kiss, dear Youth, to dry these flowing eyes: "One kiss as thy last Legacy I'd fain "Preserve, no God shall take it off again. "Kiss, while I watch thy swimming eye-balls soul, "Watch thy last gasp, and catch thy springing soul. "I'll suck it in, I'll hoard it in my heart, "I with that sacred pledg will never part, "But thou wilt part, but thou art gone, far gone "To the dark shades, and leav'st me here alone. "Thou dy'st, but hopeless I must suffer life, "Must pine away with easless endless grief. "Why was I born a Goddess? why was I "Made such a wretch to want the pow'r to die? "If I by death my sorrows might redress, "If the cold Grave could to my pains give ease, "I'd gladly die, I'd rather nothing be "Than thus condemn'd to immortality: "In that vast empty void, and boundless wast, "We mind not what's to come, nor what is past.

"Of life, or death we know no difference, "Nor hopes, nor fears at all affect our sense: "But those who are of pleasure once bereft, "And must survive, are most unhappy left: "To ravenous sorrow they are left a prey, "Nor can they ever drive despair away.

"Take, cruel Proserpine, take my lov'd Boy, "Rich with my spoils, do thou my loss enjoy. "Take him relentless Goddess, for thy own, "Never till now wast thou my envy grown. "Hard Fate! that thus the best of things must be "Always the plunder of the Grave, and thee: "The Grave, and thou now all my hopes engross, "And I for ever must Adonis lose. "Thou'rt dead, alas! alas! my Youth, thou'rt dead, "And with thee all my pleasures too are fled: "They're all like sleeting vanish'd dreams pass'd o're, "And nought but the remembrance left in store "Of tasted joys ne're to be tasted more:

"With thee my Cestos, all my charms are gone, "Thy Venus must thy absence ever moan, "And spend the tedious live-long nights alone. "Ah! heedless Boy, why would'st thou rashly choose "Thy self to dang'rous pleasures to expose? "Why would'st thou hunt? why would'st thou any more "Venture with Dogs to chase the foaming Boar? "Thou wast all fair to mine, to humane eyes, "But not (alas!) to those wild Savages. "One would have thought thy sweetness might have charm'd "The roughest kind, the fiercest rage disarm'd: "Mine (I am sure) it could; but wo is thee! "All wear not eyes, all wear not breasts like me.

In such sad words the Dame her grief did vent, While the Wing'd Loves kept time with her com∣plaint: As many drops of Bloud as from the wound Of slain Adonis fell upon the ground,

So many tears, and more you might have told, That down the cheeks of weeping Venus roul'd: Both tears, and bloud to new born flow'rs give rise, Hence Roses spring, and thence Anemonies.

Cease, Venus, in the Woods to mourn thy Love, Thou'st vented sighs, thou'st lavish'd tears enough: See! Goddess, where a glorious bed of State Does ready for thy dear Adonis wait: This bed was once the Scene of Love, and Joy, But now must bear the wretched, murder'd Boy: There lies he, like a pale, and wither'd Flower, Which some rude hand had cropt before its hour: Yet smiles, and beauties still live in his face, Which death can never frighten from their place There let him lie upon that conscious bed, Where you loves mysteries so oft have tried: When you've enjoy'd so many an happy night, Each lengthen'd into ages of delight. There let him lie, there heaps of Flowers strow, Roses and Lillies store upon him throw, And myrtle Garlands lavishly bestow:

Pour Myrrh, and Balm, and costliest Ointments on, Flowers are faded, Ointments worthless grown, Now thy Adonis, now thy Youth is gone, Who was all sweetnesses compriz'd in one.

In Purple wrapt, Adonis lies in state, A Troop of mourning Loves about him wait: Each does some mark of their kind sorrow show, One breaks his Shafts, t'other unstrings his Bow, A third upon his Quiver wreaks his hate, As the sad causes of his hasty fate: This plucks his bloudy garments off, that brings Water in Vessels from the neighb'ring Springs, Some wash his Wound, some fan him with their Wings: All equally their Mothers loss bemoan, All moan for poor Adonis dead and gone. Sad Hymen too the fatal loss does mourn, His Tapers all to Funeral Tapers turn, And all his wither'd Nuptial Garlands burn:

His gay, and airy Songs are heard no more, But mournful Strains, that hopeless love deplore. Nor do the Graces fail to bear a part With wretched Venus in her pain and smart: The poor Adonis dead! by turns they cry, And strive in grief the Goddess to out-vie. The Muses too in softest Lays bewail The hapless Youth, and his fled Soul recal: But all in vain;—ah! numbers are too weak To call the lost, the dead Adonis back: Not all the pow'rs of Verse, or charms of Love The deaf remorsless Proserpine can move. Cease then, sad Queen of Love, thy plaints give o're, Till the next year reserve thy grief in store: Reserve thy Sighs, and tears in store till then, Then thou must sigh, then thou must weep agen.