Poems by Sir W.T.

VIRGIL'S LAST ECLOGUE TRANSLATED, OR RATHER, IMITATED, at the Desire OF My LADY GIFFARD.

ONE Labour more, O Arethusa, yield Before I leave the Shepherds and the Field: Some Verses to my Gallus e'er we part, Such as may one day break Lycoris Heart

As She did his. Who can refuse a Song To one that lov'd so well, and dy'd so young! So maist thou thy belov'd Alpheus please, When thou creep'st under the Sicanian Seas. Begin and sing Gallus's, unhappy fires, Whilst yonder Goat to yonder branch aspires Out of his reach. We sing not to the deaf; An answer comes from every trembling Leaf. What Woods, what Forests had intic'd your stay, Ye Nayades, why came ye not away! When Gallus dy'd by an unworthy flame Parnassus knew, and lov'd too well his name To stop your course; nor could your hasty flight Be staid by Pindus which was his delight. Him the fresh Laurels, Him the lowly Heath Bewail'd with dewy tears; his parting breath Made lofty Maenalus hang his piny head; Lycaean Marbles wept when he was dead.

Under a lonely Tree he lay and pin'd, His Flock about him ••eeding on the Wind As he on Love; such kind and gentle Sheep The fair Adonis would be proud to keep. There came the Shepherds, there the weary Hinds, Thither Menalcas parcht with Frost and Winds. All ask him whence, for whom this fatal love Apollo came his Arts and Herbs to prove. Why Gallus? why so fond? He says; thy flame, Thy care, Lycoris, is another's game; For him she sighs and raves, him she pursues Through mid days heats, and through the morning dews; Over the snowy cliffs and frozen streams, Through noisy Camps. Up Gallus, leave thy dreams, She has left thee. Still lay the drooping Swain Hanging his mournfull head, Phoebus in vain Offers his Herbs, employs his counsel here; 'Tis all refus'd, or answer'd with a tear.

What shakes the branches! what makes all the trees Begin to bow their heads, the Goats their knees! Oh! 'tis Sylvanus with his mossy beard And leafy crown, attended by a herd Of Wood-born Satyrs; see! he shakes his Spear, A green young Oak the tallest of the year. Pan the Arcadian god forsook the plains, Mov'd with the story of his Gallus pains. We saw him come with Oaten pipe in hand Painted with Berries-juice; we saw him stand And gaze upon his Shepherds bathing Eyes; And what, no end, no end of grief he cries! Love, little minds all thy consuming care, Or restless thoughts, they are his daily fare. Nor cruel Love with tears, nor grass with show'rs Nor Goats with tender sprouts, nor Bees with flow'rs Are ever satisfi'd. So said the god, And toucht the Shepherd with his hazle rod:

He, sorrow-slain, seem'd to revive, and said, But yet Arcadians is my grief allay'd, To think that in these Woods, and Hills, and Plains, When I am silent in the grave, your Swains Shall sing my loves, Arcadian Swains inspir'd By Phoebus; Oh! how gently shall these tir'd And fainting Limbs repose in endless sleep, Whilst your sweet Notes my Love immortal keep! Would it had pleas'd the Gods I had been born Just one of you, and taught to wind a Horn, Or weild a Hook, or prune a branching Vine, And known no other Love but, Phillis, thine; Or thine, Amyntas; What though both are brown, So are the Nuts and Berries on the Down; Amongst the Vines, the Willows, and the Springs, Phillis makes Garlands, and Amyntas sings. No cruel Absence calls my Love away Farther than bleating Sheep can go astray.

Here, my Lycoris, here are shady groves, Here Fountains cool, and Meadows soft, our lvoes And lives may here together wear and end: O the true joys of such a fate and friend! I now am hurried by severe commands Into remotest parts, among the bands Of armed Troops; there by my foes pursu'd, Here by my friends; but still by love subdu'd. Thou far from home, and me, art wandring o'er The Alpine snows, the farthest Western shore, The frozen Rhine. When are we like to meet? Ah gently, gently, lest thy tender feet Be cut with Ice. Cover thy lovely armes; The Northern cold relents not at their charms: Away I'll go into some shady bow'rs, And sing the songs I made in happy hours; And charm my woes. How can I better chuse, Than among wildest Woods my self to lose,

And carve our loves upon the tender Trees, There they will thrive? See how my love agrees With the young plants: look how they grow toge∣ther In spight of absence, and in spight of weather. Mean while I'll climb that Rock, and ramble o'er Yon woody Hill; I'll chase the grizly Boar, I'll find Diana's and her Nymphs resort; No frosts, no storms shall slack my eager sport. Methinks I'm wandring all about the rocks And hollow sounding woods: look how my locks Are torn with boughs and thorns! My shafts are gone My legs are tir'd, and all my sport is done, Alas! this is no cure for my disease; Nor can our toyls that cruel god appease. Now neither Nymphs, nor Songs can please me more, Nor hollow Woods, nor yet the chafed Boar: No sport, no labour, can divert my grief: Without Lycoris there is no relief.

Though I should drink up Heber's icy streams, Or Scythian snows, yet still her fiery beams Would scorch me up. Whatever we can prove, Love conquers all, and we must yield to Love.