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I shall speak with the more Pleasure on the next Poet; firft, as he is a Briton, next, that he has Beauties equal to the two great Italians mention'd before, and laftly, that I have the Pleasure of being the first to point out to the Inhabitants of this Part of our Island, a Beauty that was conceiv'd and born in the North. Reader, be, well aware, and despise not the Diction of this paftoral Comedy of the Gentle Shepherd: It is a Dialect well adapted to the Subject, and has great Applaufe from very great Men, Mr. Pope preferr'd it to any Paftoral in the Italian, except those wrote by Taffo and Guarini, and thou mayst understand, that Taffo was the Inventor of this Kind of Poefy.

In this Paftoral of our Countryman, Mr. Allan Ramfay, are many cooth Words and Phrafes, right worthy being brought into the Dialect spoken by the most polite, in this moft courtly Part of Britain; neither can we without Marvel, fee so many Words borrow'd from France and other Countries, and grafted into our Speech, and see our best Writers, and moft courtly Speakers, neglect fo many well founding Expreffions and fignificant Words, as are

to be found in our northern Dialect.

The other Poets we have quoted have brought in Shepherds praifing their belov'd Shepherdeffes, but Mr. Allan Ramfay introduces a Maiden praifing and defcribing the Gentle Shepherd.

Peggy. Patie to me is dearer than my Breath, But want of him I dread nae other (a) Skaith. There's nane of a' the Herds that tread the Green Has fic a Smile or fic twa glancing Een. And then he speaks with fic a taking Art, His Words they (b) thirle like Mufick thro' my Heart.

How

(a) Damage,

(b) Thrill.

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How blithely can he sport, and gently rave,
And jeft at little Fears that fright the (a) Lave.
Ilk Day that he's alone upon the Hill,

He reads fell Books that teach him meikle Skill.
He is but what need I say that or this,
I'd spend a Month to tell you what he is!
In a' he fays or does, there's fic a Gate,
The reft feem Coofs compar'd with my dear Pate.

This Writer has with Mr. Gay left Arcadian Strains, and Plains, to which Stile the Reft keep, but then Taffo and Guarini as their Stile is Arcadian, their Scenes are in Arcady; what moft difpleafeth us is, when, as Mr. Philips in his third Pastoral keeps up to the Sicilian Stile, yet talks of Thomas and Britain.

Next to praifing and defcribing thofe that they love, generally paftoral Writers are fond of making young Lovers complain of their Love, and here Mr. Philips has done himself and our Language great Credit and Honour. Hear his charming Shepherd's Boy.

Ah well a Day! How long muft I endure
This pining Pain? Or who fhall work my Cure?
Fond Love no Cure will have; feeks no Repose;
Delights in Grief; nor any Measure knows.
And now the Moon begins in Clouds to rife;
The twinkling Stars are lighted in the (b) Skies;
The Winds are hufh'd; the Dews diftil; and Sleep
With foft Embrace has feiz'd my weary Sheep.
I only, with the prouling Wolf, conftrain'd
All Night to wake. With Hunger is he pain❜d,
And I with Love. His Hunger he may tame:
But who in Love can stop the growing Flame?
Whilome did I, all as this Poplar fair,
Up-raife my heedlefs Head, devoid of Care,

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'Mong ruftick Routs the chief for wanton Game;
Nor could they merry make 'till Lobbin came.
Who better feen, than I, in Shepherds Arts,
To please the Lads and win the Laffes Hearts?
How deftly to mine oaten Reed fo fweet,
Wont they, upon the Green, to fhift their Feet?
And, when the Dance was done, how would they
Some well devised Tale from me to learn? [yearn
For, many Songs and Tales of Mirth had I,
To chafe the lingring Sun adown the Sky.
But, ah! fince Lucy coy has wrought her Spite
Within my Heart; unmindful of Delight,
The jolly Grooms Ifly; and all alone

To Rocks and Woods pour forth my fruitlefs Moan.
Oh quit thy wonted Scorn, relentless Fair!
E'er, lingring long, I perifh thro' Defpair.
Had Rofalind been Miftrefs of my Mind,
Tho' not fo fair, fhe would have been more kind.
O think, unwitting Maid, while yet is Time,
How flying Years impare our youthful Prime!
Thy Virgin Bloom will not for ever stay;
And Flow'rs, tho' left ungather'd, will decay.
The Flow'rs a new returning Seafons bring;
But Beauty faded has no fecond Spring.

My Words are Wind! She, deaf to all my Criès,
Takes Pleasure in the Mischief of her Eyes.
Like frisking Heifers, loose in flow'ry Meads,
She gads where-e'er her roving Fancy leads;
Yet ftill from me. Ah me, the tirefome Chace!
While, wing'd with Scorn, fhe flies my fond Em-
She flies indeed: But ever leaves behind, [brace.
Fly where the will, her Likeness' in my Mind.
Ah turn thee then! Unthinking Damfel! Why,
Thus from the Youth, who loves thee, fhould'ft thou
No cruel Purpofe in my Speed I
[Ay?
'Tis all but Love; and Love why fhould't thou fear?

What

What idle Fears a Maiden Breaft alarm!
Stay, fimple Girl! a Lover cannot harm.

What can be finer! It would be Injuftice to Mr. Philips, and to our own Soul, not to confefs, that we think no Body who has any the least Harmony in their Mind, but it must be awak'd, and sympathize with this.

Mr. Pope introduces Alexis, and puts into his Mouth a very sweet Complaint:

That Flute is mine, which Colin's tuneful Breath
Infpir'd when living, and bequeath'd in Death:
He faid, Alexis, take this Pipe, the fame
That taught the Groves my Rofalinda's Name:
But now the Reeds fhall hang on yonder Tree
For-ever filent, fince defpis'd by thee:
Oh! Were I made by fome transforming Pow'r,
The captive Bird that fings within thy Bow'r,
Then might my Voice thy liftning Ears employ,
And I thofe Kiffes he receives, enjoy.

And yet my Numbers please the rural Throng,
Rough Satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the Song:
The Nymphs forfaking ev'ry Cave and Spring,
Their early Fruit, and milk-white Turtles bring,
Each am'rous Nymph prefers her Gifts in vain,
On you their Gifts are all beftow'd again!
For you the Swains the faireft Flow'rs defign,
And in one Garland all their Beauties join;
Accept the Wreath which you deserve alone,
In whom all Beauties are compriz'd in one.

See what Delights in Sylvan Scenes appear!
Defcending Gods have found Elyzium here.
In Woods bright Venus with Adonis ftray'd,
And chafte Diana haunts the Foreft-fhade.

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Come, lovely Nymph, and bless the filent Hours;
When Swains from fhearing feek their nightly Bow'rs;
When weary Reapers quit the fultry Field,
And crown'd with Corn, their Thanks to Ceres yield.
This harmless Grove no lurking Viper hides,
But in my Breaft the Serpent Love abides.
Here Bees from Bloffoms fip the rofy Dew,
But Alexis knows no Sweet but you,
your
Some God conduct you to these blissful Seats,
The mofly Fountains, and the green Retreats!
Where'er you walk, cool Gales fhall fan the Glade,
Trees, where you fit, fhall crowd into a Shade,
Where'er you tread, the blufhing Flow'rs fhall rife,
And all Things flourish where you turn your Eyes.""
Oh! how I long with you to pafs my Days,
Invoke the Mules, and refound your Praife;
Your Praise the Birds fhall chant in ev'ry Grove,
And Winds fhall waft it to the Pow'rs above.
But would you fing, and rival Orpheus' Strain,
The wond'ring Forefts foon fhould dance again,
The moving Mountains hear the pow'rful Call,
And headlong Streams hang lift'ning in their Fall.

W

M

Great has been the Strife whether these Verfes, or those of Mr. Ambrofe Philips just mentioned, are moft worthy of Praife, which we believe no fmall Difficulty to decide.

Either of them may ferve for future Poets to imitate, who purpofe to excel in this Sicilian, or Arcadian Paftoral Stile: Many Friends has this Manner of Writing, its Softness stealing thro' the Ear; moft young Minds are moft ftrongly affected with it, it warms the very Hearts of all who are touch'd with the fine Paffion of Love, and infuses a difinterested and noble Spirit into the Soul: It banifhes from the Breaft every Thing mean and contemptible, and L

VOL. II.

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