this Poet foar'd fo high in his Paftorals, that he has afpired to rob the Canticles:

Breath foft, ye Winds; ye Waters gently flow;
Shield her ye Trees; ye Flowers around her grow;
Ye Swains, I beg you, pafs in Silence by ;
My Love in yonder Vale afleep does lie.

í.

In the Song of Solomon, from which he has tranflated it, our Verfion has it, Chap. ii. Verfe 5, "I "charge you, Oye Daughters of Jerufalem! by the "Roes and by the Hinds of the Field, that you not fir "not up nor awake my Love, 'till he pleafes." We would by no means be understood to blame this Liberty, more especially in this Place, the Song of Solomon being most beautifully Pastoral; we rather take an Opportunity to encourage Poets, to adorn their Verses with Flowers from that Eastern Garden, and make no Scruple, thinking it is thereby profaned, for it is indeed thereby the more honour'd.. And certain it is, the aforementioned Song of Solomon is fitlier imitated by Paftoral Writers, than many Poets pretending to have touch'd on the Strains of Shepherds. Lefs pleaseth me Mr. Philips, (notwithftanding much Sound be in the Verfe) where he laments the Death of Stella: Such courtly Lines are : meet for Perfonages, more than ruftick Swains and Youths, who have fpent great Travail in Education, might wail in fuch Guife:

Unhappy Colinet! What boots thee now
To weave fresh Garlands for the Damfel's Brow?
Throw by the Lilly, Daffadil, and Rofe;
One of black Yew, and Willow pale, compose,
With baneful Henbane, deadly Night-fhade dreft;
A Garland, that may witnefs thy Unreft.

My

My Pipe, whose foothing Sound could Paffion move,
And first taught Stella's Virgin Heart to love,
Untun'd, fhall hang upon this blasted Oak,
Whence Owls their Dirges fing, and Ravens croak:
Nor Lark, nor Linnet fhall by Day delight,
Nor Nightingale divert my Moan by Night;
The Night and Day fhall undiftinguish'd be
Alike to Stella, and alike to me.

Let us fee how these three Writers of Paftoral Dialogue have described their favourite Shepherdeffes, or Miftreffes. We fhall, in Order as they were wrote, begin with Mr. Philips.

Mild as a Lamb, and harmless as a Dove, True as the Turtle, is the Maid I love. How we in fecret love, I fhall not fay ; Divine her Name, and I give up the Day.

Here is enough Simplicity, and rather too much; for the Shepherd is very thoughtless to rifque his Prize that he contends for, on Hobbinol's gueffing his Miftrefs's Name, and then after saying, that she is as harmless as a Dove, it is too much Sameness to say in the very next Line, that he is as true as a Turtle, that might have been well express'd in one Line;

As true and harmless as the Turtle Dove.

And to speak the Truth, the Turtle Dove had been pretty well flown by most Paftoral Writers. And herein lies one of the greatest Difficulties in these Sort of Compofitions, to avoid common-place Epithets, or elfe to introduce them in a Manner which may feem new. Upon this Head we cannot overpraife Mr. Pope, who fpeaketh himself in his own fine Phrafe, instead of the Shepherd's :

Strephon

Strephon.

All Nature mourns, the Skies relent in Showers; Hufh'd are the Birds, and clos'd the drooping Flowers: If Delia fmile, the Flowers begin to fpring, The Skies to brighten, and the Birds to fing.

Daphnis.

All Nature laughs, the Groves are fresh and fair, The Sun's mild Luftre warms the vital Air; If Sylvia fmiles new Glories gild the Shore, And vanquish'd Nature feems to charm no more.

This laft Line has fo very remote Senfe, and is of fuch difficult Reading, that it is more like a ftrain'd Line in Heroick, than what it ought here to be, the Praise of a young Shepherdefs by a Swain. Think not, benign Reader, that we venture to find any Fault with these fine Verses, all we intend, or would be thought to mean is, that they are mifplac'd: In what Manner has Mr. Gay exprefs'd himself, who left the Arcadian Plains, and draws his Scene of Action at home.

Lobbin Glout.

My Blauzelinda is the blitheft Lafs,
Than Primrofe fweeter, or the Clover-grafs.
Fair is the King-cup that in Meadow blows,
Fair is the Daifie that befide her grows,
Fair is the Gillyflow'r, of Gardens fweet,
Fair is the Mary-gold for Pottage meet.
But Blouzelind's than Gillyflow'r more fair,
Than Daifie, Mary-gold, or King-cup rare.

Cuddy.

Cuddy.

My brown Buxoma is the feateft Maid,
That e'er at Wake delightfome Gambol play'd.
Clean as young Lambkins or the Goofe's Down,
And like the Goldfinch in her Sunday Gown.
The witlefs Lamb may fport upon the Plain,
The frifking Kid delight the gaping Swain,
The wanton Calf may fkip with many a Bound,
And my Cur Tray play defteft Feats around:
But neither Lamb nor Kid, nor Calf nor Tray,
Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.

Lobbin Clout,

Sweet is my Toil when Blouzelind is near,
Of her bereft 'tis Winter all the Year.
With her no fultry Summer's Heat I know;
In Winter, when fhe's nigh, with Love I glow.
Come Blouzelinda, eafe thy Swain's Defire,
My Summer's Shadow and my Winter's Fire!

Here is nothing but plain and fimple Nature: The Flowers, the Beafts, the Seafons, nothing out of their Sight, or Reach, nothing affected, but all in Character, and all beautifully fo.

Now coming to fpeak of the Dramatick Paftoral Writers, and first of Taffo, we cannot help thinking, that his artful Manner of praifing the Beauty of Sylvia, by another Woman, as quoted in the 20th Page of the foregoing Volume, has fomething in it very mafterly, to which we refer, and proceed to Guarini, the other great Italian dramatick paftoral Poet, who makes his Faithful Shepherd speak of his Mistress's Beauty thus:

CRUDA

CR

RUDA Amarilli, che col nome ancora
D'amar, ahi laffo, amaramente infegni.
Amarilli del candido liguftro
Più candida, e più bella:
Ma del'afpido fordo

E più forda, più fera, e più fugace :
Poiche col dirt' offendo,

I'mi morrò tacendo:

Mà grideran per me le piagge, e i monti,
E puefta felva, à cui

Si fpeffo il tuo bel nome
Di rifonare infegno :
Per me piangendo i fonti,
E mormorando i venti
Diranno i miei lamenti :
Parlerà nel mio volto
La Pietate, e'l dolore ;
Efe fia muta ogn'altra cofa, al fine
Parlerà il mio morire,
E ti dirà la morte il mio martire.

Which I have tranflated thus:

Ah Amarillis! far more beautiful, And much more fair than are the whiteft Lillies; But than deaf Adders far more deaf and cruel: Since I offend thee when I fpeak my Love, My Tongue fhall never dare; but yet for me Shall fpeak the Fields, the Mountains, and the By me fo often taught to found thy Name: [Woods, For me fhall Fountains weep, and murmuring Winds Whisper out my Complaints; in my fad Face Grief and Diftrefs fhall fpeak, and if at last All other Things are mute, even then my Death Shall fpeak, and tell thee, that Love's Martyr dies.