Memorial. Yet hath his Shepherd's Boy at fometimes raised his ruftick Reed to Rhimes more rumbling than rural. Diverfe grave Points alfo hath he handled of churchly Matter and Doubts in Religion daily arifing, to great Clerks only appertaining. What liketh me beft are his Names, indeed right fimple and meet for the Country, fuch as Lobbin, Cuddy, Hobbinol, Diggon, and others, fome of which I have made bold to borrow. Moreover, as he call'd his Eclogues, the Shepherd's Calender, and divided the fame into the twelve Months, I have chofen (peradventure not over rafhly) to name mine by the Days of the Week, omitting Sunday or the Sabbath, ours being fupposed to be chriftian Shepherds, and to be then at Church Worfhip. Yet further of many of Maifter Spencer's Eclogues it may be obferv'd; tho' Months they be call'd, of the faid Months therein, nothing is fpecify'd; wherein I have also esteem'd him worthy mine Imitation.

And here, much Comfort arifeth in me, from the Hopes, in that I conceive, when thefe Words in the Course of tranfitory Things fhall decay, it may fo hap, in meet Time that fome Lover of Simplicity fhall arife, who fhall have the Hardiness to render thefe mine Eclogues into fuch more modern Dialect as fhall be then understood, to which End, Gloffes and Explications of uncouth paftoral Terms are annex'd.

In this Shepherd's Week, or Paftorals for fix Days, Mr. Pope had little Share, he having before declar'd, that Paftorals ought to be an Imitation of the golden Age, yet not entirely to abandon his Friend, he wrote a few Lines for him in the fifth Paftoral, call'd the Dirge; they exprefs the dying Words of Blouzelinda :

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Mother,

Mother, quoth fhe, let not the Poultry need, And give the Goofe wherewith to raise her Breed, Be these my Sifter's Care-and ev'ry Morn Amid the Ducklings let her scatter Corn; The fickly Calf that's hous'd, be sure to tend, Feed him with Milk, and from bleak Colds defend. Yet e'er I die- -fee, Mother, yonder Shelf, There fecretly I've hid my wordly Pelf. Twenty good Shillings in a Rag I laid, Be ten the Parfon's, for my Sermon paid. The Reft is yoursMy Spinning-wheel and Rake, Let Sufan keep for her dear Sifter's Sake; My new ftraw Hat that's trimly lin❜d with green, Let Peggy wear, for fhe's a Damfel clean. My leathern Bottle, long in Harvests try'd, Be Grubbinol's-this filver Ring befide: Three filver Pennies, and a Ninepence bent, A Token kind, to Bumkinet is fent. Thus fpoke the Maiden, while her Mother cry'd, And peaceful, like the harmless Lamb, fhe dy'd.

In this Mr. Pope endeavour'd to imitate the Stile of Mr. Gay, but the last Line betrays him; his Arcadian Strain, which charmed him in his Youth, always was his Song, except as now, he by Force chang'd a Note or two: How different are his Verfes in his fourth Paftoral, to the Memory of Mrs. Tempest:

Ye gentle Muses leave your chrystal Spring, Let Nymphs and Sylvans Cypress Garlands bring; Ye weeping Loves, the Stream with Myrtles hide, And break your Bows, as when Adonis dy'd; And with your golden Darts, now useless grown, Infcribe a Verse on this relenting Stone:

"Let Nature change, let Heav'n and Earth deplore> "Fair Daphne's dead, and Love is now no more! 'Tis done, and Nature's various Charms decay; See gloomy Clouds obfcure the chearful Day! Now hung with Pearls the dropping Trees appear, Their faded Honours fcatter'd on her Bier. See, where on Earth the flow'ry 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, Nor thirsty Heifers feek the gliding Flood. The filver Swans her hapless Fate bemoan, In fadder Notes than when they fing their own. Echo no more the rural Song rebounds, Her Name alone the mournful Echo founds, Her Name with Pleasure once she taught the Shore, Now Daphne's dead, and Pleasure is no more! No grateful Dews defcend from Ev'ning Skies, No Morning Odours from the Flow'rs arise. No rich Perfumes refresh the fruitful Field, Nor fragrant Herbs their native Incense yield. The balmy Zephyrs, filent fince her Death, Lament the ceafing of a fweeter Breath. Th' induftrious Bees neglect their golden Store.; Fair Daphne's dead, and Sweetness is no more!

No more the mounting Larks while Daphne fings, Shall lift'ning in mid Air fufpend their Wings; No more the Nightingales repeat her Lays, Or hufh'd with Wonder, hearken from the Sprays: No more the Streams their Murmurs fhall forbear, A fweeter Mufick than their own to hear; But tell the Reeds, and tell the vocal Shore, Fair Daphne's dead, and Mufick is no more! • Her Fate is whisper'd by the gentle Breeze, And told in Sighs to all the trembling Trees K 3

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The

The trembling Trees, in ev'ry Plain and Wood,
Her Fate remurmur to the filver Flood;
The filver Flood, fo lately calm, appears

Swell'd with new Paffion, and o'erflows with Tears;
The Winds and Trees and Floods her Death deplore,
Daphne, our Grief! our Glory now no more.

Here you fee all the Harmony of Numbers, and Beauty of Poetry. It is, notwithstanding, a very great Pity, that Mr. Pope did not, instead of writing Paftoral fo young, defer it to be one of his laft Works; for Paftoral Poetry (we dare boldly affert) is the most difficult of all, and never fo well conducted as when it is Dramatick: This Mr. Walsh feems thoroughly fenfible of, when he fo earnestly perfwades Mr. Pope to write a Paftoral Comedy. It was this high, harmonious Verfe, made Sir Ri chard Steele fay, it was not Paftoral, but fomewhat better; allowing at the fame Time, that Mr. Phi lips had wrote in a Stile truly Paftoral, which evidently fhews the Partiality of Sir Richard to that Author: For when he writes on the fame Subject in his third Paftoral, fpeaking of the Death of Albino, (under which Character he endeavours to figure the young Duke of Gloucefter, the only Child of Queen Anne) we fhould be gladly inform'd, whether he has not aimed as high as Mr. Pope, though, to be fure, his Strain is widely different. Give Atten tion, Reader, to his Attempt:

Can we forget how ev'ry Creature moan'd,
And fympathizing Rocks in Eccho groan'd,
Prefaging future Woe, when, for our Crimes,
We loft Albing, Pledge of peaceful Times ?
The Pride of Britain, and the darling Joy
Of all the Plains, and ev'ry Shepherd Boy.

No

No joyous Pipe was heard, no Flocks were feen,
Nor Shepherds found upon the graffy Green;
No Cattle graz'd the Field, nor drunk the Flood;
No Birds were heard to warble thro' the Wood.

In yonder gloomy Grove ftretch'd out he lay, His beauteous Limbs upon the damping Clay; The Roses on his pallid Cheeks decay'd, And o'er his Lips a livid Hue difplay'd: Bleating around him lye his penfive Sheep, And mourning Shepherds come in Crowds to weep; The pious Mother comes, with Grief opprefs'd; Ye, confcious Trees and Fountains, can atteft With what fad Accents and what moving Cries She fill'd the Grove, and importun'd the Skies, And ev'ry Star upbraided with his Death, When in her Widow'd Arms, devoid of Breath, She clafp'd her Son. Nor did the Nymph for this Place in her Dearling's Welfare all her Bliss, And teach him young the Sylvan Crook to wield, And rule the peaceful Empire of the Field.

As milk-white Swans on filver Streams do fhow, And filver Streams to grace the Meadows flow; As Corn the Vales, and Trees the Hills adorn, So thou to thine an Ornament was born. Since thou, delicious Youth, didft quit the Plains, Th' ungrateful Ground we till with fruitlefs Pains: In labour'd Furrows fow the Choice of Wheat, And over empty Sheaves in Harvest sweat: A thin Increase our woolly Subftance yields, And Thorns and Thiftles overfpread the Fields.

What wants there here of the Arcadian Stile. This alfo must be pronounced to be no Paftoral, but fomething better; that is, Sir Richard Steele means finer Verfes, too high for Shepherds Notes: Nay, K 4

this