Difcontented with his prefent condition, and defirous to be any thing but what he is, he wishes himself ne of the shepherds. He then catches the idea of rural tranquillity; but foon discovers how much happier he should be in thefe happy regions, with Lycoris at his fide.

Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori:
Hic nemus; hic ipfo tecum confumerer ævo.
Nunc infanus amor duri me Martis in armis ;
Tela inter media, atque adverfos detinet hoftes.
Tu procul a patria (nec fit mibi eredere) tantum
Alpinas, ab dura, nives, & frigore Rheni

Me fine fola vides. Ab te ne frigora lædant!
A tibi ne teneras glacies fecet afpera plantas!

Here cooling fountains roll through flow'ry meads,
Here woods, Lycoris, lift their verdant heads;
Here could I wear my careless life away,
And in thy arms infenfibly decay.

Instead of that, me frantic love detains

'Mid foes, and dreadful darts, and bloody plains;

While you and can my foul the tale believe,
Far from your country, lonely wand'ring leave
Me, me your lover, barbarous fugitive!

Seek the rough Alps where fnows eternal fhine,.
And joyless borders of the frozen Rhine.
Ah! may no cold e'er blast my dearest maid,
Nor pointed ice thy tender feet invade !

WARTON

He then turns his thoughts on every fide, in quest of fomething that may folace or amufe him: he pro

pofes

pofes happiness to himself, first in one scene and then in another; and at last finds that nothing will fatisfy:

Jam neque Hamadryades rurfum, nec carmina nobis
Ipfa placent: ipfe rurfum concedite fylva.
Non illum noftri possunt_mutare labores ;
Nec fi frigoribus mediis Hebrumque bibamus,
Scithoniafque nives hyemis fubeamus aquofæ ;
Nec fi, cum moriens alta liber aret in ulmo,
Ethiopum verfemus oves fub fidere Cancri,
Omnia vincit amor; et nos cedamus amori.

But now again no more the woodland maids,
Nor paftoral fongs delight-Farewell, ye fhades.
No toils of ours the cruel god can change,
Tho' loft in frozen deferts we should range;
Tho' we should drink where chilling Hebrus flows,
Endure bleak winter's blasts, and Thracian fnows;
Or on hot India's plains our flock should feed,
Where the parch'd elm declines his fickening head;
Beneath fierce glowing Cancer's fiery beams,
Far from cool breezes and refreshing streams.
Love over all maintains refistless sway,
And let us love's all-conquering power obey.

WARTON.

But notwithstanding the excellence of the tenth paftoral, I cannot forbear to give the preference to the first, which is equally natural and more diverfified. The complaint of the thepherd, who 'faw his old companion at eafe in the fhade, while him felf was driving. his little flock he knew not whither, is fuch as, with

variation

variation of circumstances, mifery always utters at the

fight of profperity:

Nos patriæ fines, & dulcia linquimus arva ;
Nos patriam fugimus: tu, Tityre, lentus in umbra,
Formofam refonare doces Amaryllida fylvas.

We leave our country's bounds, our much lov'd plains;

We from our country fly, unhappy swains!

You, Tit'rus, in the groves, at leifure laid,
Teach Amaryllis' name to every shade.

WARTON.

His account of the difficulties of his journey, gives a very tender image of paftoral diftrefs:

En ipfe capellus

Protenus æger ago; hanc etiam vix, Tityre, duco:
Hic inter denfas corylos modo namque gemellos,
Spem gregis, ab! filice in nuda connixa reliquit.

And lo! fad part'ner of the general care,
Weary and faint I drive my goats afar!
While scarcely this my leading hand fuftains,
Tir'd with the way, and recent from her pains;
For 'mid yon tangled hazels as we paft,
On the bare flints her hapless twin fhe caft,
The hopes and promise of my ruin'd fold!

WARTON.

The defcription of Virgil's happiness in his little. farm, combines almost all the images of rural pleasure ;.

and

and he, therefore that can read it with indifference, has no fenfe of pastoral poetry:

Fortunate fenex, argo tua rura manebunt,

Et tibi magna fatis; quamvis lapis omnia nudus,
Limofoque palus obducat pafcua junto,
Non infueta gravis tentabunt pabula fœtas,
Nec mala vicini pecoris contagia lædent.
Fortunate fenex, his inter flumina nota,
Et fontes facros, frigus captabis opacum,
Hinc tibi, quæ femper vicino ab limite fepes,
Hybleis apibus florem depafta falicti,
Sæpe levi fomnum fuadebit inire fufurro.
Hinc alta fub rupe canet frondator ad auras ;
Nec tamen interea raucæ, tua cura, palumbes,
Nec gemere aëria ceffabit turtur ab ulmo.

Happy old man! then ftill thy farms reftor'd,
Enough for thee, shall bless thy frugal board.
What tho' rough ftones the naked foil o'erfpread,
Or marshy bulrufh rear its wat❜ry head,

No foreign food thy teeming ewes shall fear,
No touch contagious fpread its influence here.
Happy old man! here 'mid th' accuftom'd ftreams
And facred fprings, you'll fhun the fcorching

beams;

While from yon willow-fence thy pafture's bound,
The bees that fuck their flow'ry ftores around,
Shall fweetly mingle, with the whispering boughs,
Their lulling murmurs, and invite repose:
While from steep rocks the pruner's fong is heard;
Nor the foft-cooing dove, thy fav'rite bird,

Mean

Mean while fhall ceafe to breathe her melting strain,

Nor turtles from th' aerial elm to 'plain.

WARTON

It may be observed, that these two poems were produced by events that really happened; and may, therefore, be of use to prove, that we can always feel more than we can imagine, and that the most artful fiction must give way to truth.