A PASTORAL ELEGY. Stephen Duck Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T90234 K073280.000 Duck, Stephen, 1705-1756. Poems on several occasions: By Stephen Duck. London printed for the author 1736 pp. 54-65. xl,334,[2]p. ; 4⁰.

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A PASTORAL ELEGY . AT first in Vales obscure the Lyre I strung ; Vales , where the Muse her annual Labours sung : Now , leaving these , she ranges o'er the Plains , And tunes her Voice to Flocks and Shepherd Swains ; Yet , fresh in Grief , but feebly moves her Wings , Weeps , while she flies , and trembles , as she sings . TWO Country Swains , in Friendship firmly join'd , Lov'd each alike , and were , like Brothers , kind : Great CAROLINE her Royal Bounty show'd To one , and rais'd him from the grov'ling Crowd ; When straight his smiling Looks , and chearful Mien , Proclaim'd the Goodness of a gracious QUEEN ; But gloomy Sadness soon his Face possess'd , And clouded all the Joys before express'd : The other gay and pleasant still appear'd ; Nor griev'd for Evils past , nor future fear'd : One Day they met ; MENALCAS first began ; And thus the mournful Tale , alternate , ran . MENALCAS . WHY , COLIN , dost thou wear that pensive Look , And sighing stand , supported by thy Crook ? Say , from what Cause this Melancholy springs ; Or dost thou verify what DAMON sings ? " Vain Man can never satiate his Desires ; " The more he has , the more he still requires : " To-day he's craving , and To-morrow cloy'd ; " New Pleasures grow insipid , when enjoy'd . " So , when our Sheep on Hills refuse to feed , We straight remove them to the verdant Mead ; Where all , intent , the luscious Herbage graze ; And , for that Day , their Pasture seems to please : The next , they range around the flow'ry Space ; And bleating tell , they loath the tainted Grass . COLIN . 'TWAS Yesterday a giddy Sheep I view'd , Which rose in CUDDY's Fold , and stagg'ring stood ; While one , with burly Horns , secure from Pain , Ran , enviously , and push'd him down again . So you , vain jesting Youth ! unmov'd with Care , Insult the hapless Swain , that's in Despair . MENALCAS . I nor insulted , nor intended Guile ; And , if I jested , 'twas to make thee smile : But tell me , Swain , what wond'rous Turn of Fate O'erclouds thy Face , that look'd serene of late ? What , is thy Harvest blasted on the Ground ? Or has the Royal CAROLINA frown'd ? Unveil thy Griefs , and make thy Sorrows known ; You know , my Friend's Misfortunes are my own . COLIN . MY Harvest is not blasted on the Ground , Nor has the Royal CAROLINA frown'd : But lately , when the Sun had gaily drest The lofty Mountains in a purple Vest , I early rose , to tend my fleecy Care ; Wet was the Grass , and piercing cold the Air . My lovely SYLVIA , stay behind , I said , Till I have weav'd a Garland for thy Head ; Till I a Bow'r , with shady Branches , form , To shun the scorching Ray , or rapid Storm ; And , when the Dew's exhal'd , which Night distill'd , Bless COLIN with thy Presence in the Field . She answer'd not ; but from her Bosom sent A deep presaging Sigh , before I went . The Sun had painted ev'ry Object gay , When to the chearful Field I took my Way ; The Lark with Mattins welcom'd in the Morn ; The Thrush and Finch sat chirping on the Thorn ; The Swallows round , in airy Circles , flew ; And , ah ! poor COLIN then was joyful too : But suddenly I saw the Mists arise , And dark'ning Clouds o'erspread the dusky Skies , Th'Horizon seem'd to cast a gloomy Frown , While from his airy Height the Lark sunk down The tuneful Birds their joyous Songs deny'd ; And boding Owls , and sooty Ravens , cry'd . My drooping Heart , which felt unusual Weight , Shock'd with such Omens , ceas'd almost to beat : Yet these , said I , portend no Evil , while My Royal Mistress condescends to smile : If She's propitious , what can COLIN fear ? Inur'd the lesser Ills of Life to bear . Thus said , I took my Way to yonder Grove ; And form'd , with spreading Boughs , an arch'd Alcove : So close I twisted in each pliant Spray , As might exclude the Wind , or sunny Ray . With sweetest Flow'rs I deck'd the mossy Ground , And strew'd the fragrant Woodbinds all around . Here , when , said I , my SYLVIA comes a-field , This grateful Bow'r a safe Retreat shall yield : If rainy , here she may the Storms evade ; If fair , the Branches will project a Shade : Here SYLVIA shall , with COLIN , take her Rest ; And COLIN here , with SYLVIA , shall be blest . As thus I spake , around I cast my Eye , And saw celestial CELIA drawing nigh : I saw ; but wonder'd why her heav'nly Mien Was clouded o'er , that us'd to be serene . CELIA's the Mistress of the flow'ry Plain , Whose Bounty's known to ev'ry worthy Swain Not Godlike PAN presided with more Care , Nor to Arcadian Shepherds was so dear . When CELIA to the rural Shade retires , She ev'ry Breast with rising Hope inspires ; Expecting Swains , with joyous Looks , proclaim The happy Time , and hail the gen'rous Dame : As languid Plants , which half the Year lie dead , When Spring approaches , raise their drooping Head . She cross'd the Plains with a dejected Air ; Her pensive Aspect shew'd her pious Care ; And , loath th'unwelcome Tidings to reveal , She sighing spoke , and left th'unfinish'd Tale : " Ah poor unhappy Swain ! return , return ; " The sable Clouds foretel a rainy Morn : " Nor only is the Day o'ercast with Gloom ; " Thy pleasing Hopes are blasted all at home ; " Thy SYLVIA , O ! " She said , and dropt the rest ; But my presaging Heart too rightly guess'd : I silent stood , and spoke my Grief with Tears ; You know , my Heart was firmly link'd to hers . MENALCAS . I know , your Hearts are link'd in Friendship fast ; Long may that mutual Bond of Friendship last : May HYMEN to you both propitious prove , And Death but late untie the Knot of Love . COLIN . O ! stop , MENALCAS , and my Loss deplore ; The good , the faithful SYLVIA is no more : That gloomy Morn she , in my Absence , dy'd ; And rigid Death the last Farewel deny'd . Another Loss I could content have born ; But must the Loss of SYLVIA always mourn . My lovely SYLVIA was my softest Theme , My Song by Day , by Night my pleasing Dream : But now in Sighs I spend the ling'ring Day ; And , weeping , pass the tardy Night away : Nor does thy Friend indulge a needless Care ; My Loss is great , and just is my Despair . MENALCAS . THY Loss and Sorrows equally are great ; But Death's the Law of Nature , fix'd by Fate : Our Flocks , our Herds , our All precarious stands ; And fall we must , when Heav'n our Fall commands . COLIN . YET Flocks and Herds are with Reluctance spar'd ; And what are Flocks and Herds , with her compar'd ? A hungry Fox stole ten of CUDDY's Lambs , A lurching Mongrel kill'd their bleating Dams : Say , did not CUDDY for his Loss repine ? But , ah ! what Loss was his , compar'd with mine ? MENALCAS . I have a Flute , which DAMON lately made ; No Shepherd on a sweeter ever play'd : I tun'd it Yesterday , and straight a Throng Of Nymphs and Swains ran crowding to my Song ; My list'ning Ewes , a-while , forsook their Meat ; My tender Lambs , tho' hungry , ceas'd to bleat : I'll tune again the soft harmonious Lay ; Music , perhaps , may chase thy Cares away . COLIN . MENALCAS , Music's for a lighter Ill ; Such Woes as mine would baffle all thy Skill . Upon his Flute ALEXIS often plays , And strives to charm my Sorrows with his Lays ; Upon his Flute ALEXIS plays in vain ; His Lays , tho' charming , cannot charm my Pain . The tuneful Birds rejoice on ev'ry Spray , My wanton Lambkins in their Pasture play ; In vain the tuneful Birds rejoice , in vain My wanton Lambkins sport upon the Plain . WITH chearful Green the spacious Fields are crown'd , And beauteous Flow'rs adorn the painted Ground ; The snowy Blossoms on the Branches shine , A pleasing Scene to ev'ry Eye , but mine ! For neither chearful Green , that crowns the Field , Nor snowy Blossoms , which the Branches yield , Nor Flow'rs , that spread the painted Meadows o'er , Delight my Eyes , now SYLVIA is no more . MENALCAS . 'TIS more than Time thy mournful Dirge to end ; For , see , the whistling Ploughmen homeward tend ; Our fleecy Flocks stand waiting round the Fold ; Damp feel the Dews , the ruffling Breezes cold ; The setting Sun forsakes the blushing Skies , And hazy Fogs from marshy Grounds arise : Then fold thy Sheep , thy anxious Cares remove ; Nor weep on Earth , for her who sings above .