[PASTORAL 03] THE THIRD PASTORAL.

ALBINO.

When Virgil thought no Shame the Dorick Reed
 To tune, and Flocks on Mantuan Plains to feed,
 With young Augustus' Name he grac'd his Song;
 And Spencer, when amid the rural Throng
 He carol'd sweet, and graz'd along the Flood
 Of gentle Thames, made ev'ry sounding Wood
 With good Eliza's Name to ring around;
 Eliza's Name on ev'ry Tree was found. 
Since then, thro' ANNA'S Cares at Ease we live,
 And see our Cattle unmolested thrive;
 Like them will I my slender Musick raise,
 And teach the vocal Vallies ANNA'S Praise. 
Mean time, on Oaten Pipe a lowly Lay,
 While my Kids brouze, obscure in Shades I play:
 Yet not obscure, while Dorset thinks not Scorn
 To visit Woods, and Swains ignobly born. 

Two Country Swains, both musical, both young,
 In Friendship's mutual Bonds united long,
 Retir'd within a mossie Cave, to shun
 The Croud of Shepherds, and the Noon-day Sun. 
A melancholy Thought possess'd their Mind:
 Revolving now the solemn Day they find,
 When young Albino died. His Image dear
 Bedews their Cheeks with many a trickling Tear;
 To Tears they add the Tribute of their Verse;
 These Angelot, those Palin did rehearse. 

ANGELOT.

Thus yearly circling by-past Times return;
 And yearly thus Albino's Fate we mourn:
 Albino's Fate was early, short his stay;
 How sweet the Rose! how speedy the Decay! 

Can we forget how ev'ry Creature moan'd,
 And sympathizing Rocks in Eccho groan'd,
 Presaging future Woe; when, for our Crimes,
 We lost Albino, Pledge of peaceful Times? 
The Pride of Britain, and the darling Joy
 Of all the Plains and ev'ry Shepherd Boy. 
No joyous Pipe was hear'd, no Flocks were seen,
 Nor Shepherds found upon the grassie Green;
 No Cattle graz'd the Field, nor drunk the Flood,
 No Birds were heard to warble thro' the Wood. 

In yonder gloomy Grove stretch'd out he lay,
 His beauteous Limbs upon the dampy Clay,
 The Roses on his pallid Cheeks decay'd,
 And o'er his lips a livid Hue display'd:
 Bleating around him lye his pensive Sheep,
 And mourning Shepherds come in Crouds to weep,
 The pious Mother comes, with Grief oppress'd:
 Ye, conscious Trees and Fountains, can attest
 With what sad 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 clasp'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 Silver Streams do show,
 And Silver Streams to grace the Meadows flow;
 As Corn the Vales, and Trees the Hills adorn,
 So thou to thine an Ornament wast born. 
Since thou, delicious Youth, didst quit the Plains,
 Th' ungrateful Ground we till with fruitless Pains;
 In labour'd Furrows sow the Choice of Wheat,
 And over empty Sheaves in Harvest sweat:
 A thin Increase our woolly Subtance yield,
 And Thorns and Thistles overspread the Field. 

How all our Hopes are fled, like Morning Dew! 
And we but in our Thoughts thy Manhood view. 
Who now shall teach the pointed Spear to throw,
 To whirl the Sling, and bend the stubborn Bow? 
Nor dost thou live to bless thy Mother's Days,
 To share the sacred Honours of her praise:
 In foreign Fields to purchase endless Fame,
 And add new Glories to the British Name. 

O peaceful may thy gentle Spirit rest! 
The flow'ry Turf lye light upon thy Breast;
 Nor shrieking Owl, nor Bat, fly round thy Tomb,
 Nor Midnight Fairies there to revel come. 

PALIN.

No more, mistaken Angelot, complain;
 Albino lives; and all our Tears are vain:
 And now the royal Nymph, who bore him, deigns
 To bless the Fields, and rule the simple Swains,
 While from above propitious he looks down. 
For this the golden Skies no longer frown,
 The Planets shine indulgent on our Isle,
 And rural Pleasures round about us smile. 
Hills, Dales, and Woods with shrilling Pipes resound;
 The Boys and Virgins dance with Garlands crown'd,
 And hail Albino blest: The Vallies ring,
 Albino blest. O now! if ever, bring
 The Laurel green, the smelling Eglantine,
 And tender Branches from the mantling Vine,
 The dewy Cowslip, that in Meadow grows,
 The Fountain Violet and the Garden Rose:
 Your Hamlets strew, and ev'ry publick Way,
 And consecrate to Mirth Albino's Day. 
My self will lavish all my little Store,
 And deal about the Goblet, flowing o'er:
 Old Moulin there shall harp, young Mico sing,
 And Cuddy dance the Round amid the Ring,
 And Hobbinol his antick Gambols play. 
To thee these Honours yearly will we pay,
 When we our Shearing Feast and Harvest keep,
 To speed the Plow, and bless our thriving Sheep. 
While Mallow Kids, and Endive Lambs pursue,
 While Bees love Thyme, and Locusts sip the Dew;
 While Birds delight in Woods their Notes to strain,
 Thy Name and sweet Memorial shall remain.