Ye Naiades, what held you from his aid,
When to unpity'd flames he was betray'd ?
Nor Aganippe tempted you away,
Nor was Parnaffus guilty of your ftay:
The Bays, whofe Honours he fo long had kept,
The lofty Bays and humble Herbage wept.
When ftretch'd beneath a Rock, he figh'd alone,
The Mountain Pines and Manalus did groan,
And cold Lycans wept from every ftone.
His Flock furrounded him: nor think thy fame
Impair'd (great Poet) by a Shepherd's name;
E'er thou and I our Sheep to Pastures led,
His Flocks the Goddess-lov'd Adonis fed.
The Shepherds came; the fluggish Neat-herd Swains,
And Swine-herds reeking from their Mast and Grains.
All ask'd from whence this frenzy Phabus came
To fee his Poet, Phebus ask'd the fame:
And is (he cry'd) that cruel Nymph thy care,
Who, flying thee, can for thy Rival dare [of War?
The Frofts, and Snow, and all the frightful forms
Sylvanus came, thy fortune to deplore;
A wreath of Lillies on his Head he wore.
Pan came, and wondring we beheld him too,
His Skin all dy'd of a vermilion, hue:
He cry'd, what mad defigns doft thou purfue?
Nor fatisfy'd with Dew the Grafs appears,
With browz the Kids, nor cruel Love with Tears.
When thus (and forrow melted in his Eyes)
Gallus to his Arcadian Friends replies:
Ye gentle Swains, fing to the Rocks my moan,
(For you Arcadian Swains fhould fing alone:)
How calm a reft my wearied Ghoft wou'd have,
If you adorn'd my Love, and mourn'd my Grave?
O that your Birth and Business had been mine,
To feed a Flock, or prefs the fwelling Vine!
Had Phyllis, or had Galatea been
My Love, or any Maid upon the Green,
(What if her Face the Nut-brown Livery wear, Are Violets not fweet, because not fair?) Secure in that unenvied ftate, among
The Poplars, I my carelefs Limbs had flung; Phyllis had made me Wreaths, and Galatea fung, Behold, fair Nymph, what blifs the Country yields, The flowry Meads, the purling Streams, the laughing Fields.
Next all the Pleasures of the Foreft fee,
Where I could melt away my years with thee.
But furious Love denies me foft repose,
And hurls me on the pointed Spears of Foes.
While thou (but ah! that I should find it so,)
Without thy Gallus for thy Guide, doft go
Through all the German Colds, and Alpine Snow.
Yet, flying me, no hardship may'st thou meet;
Nor Snow nor Ice offend thofe tender Feet.
But let me run to Defarts, and rehearse
On my Sicilian Reeds Euphorion's Verse;
Ev'n in the Dens of Monsters let me lie,
Those I can tame, but not your cruelty.
On smootheft rinds of Trees, I'll carve my woe;
And as the rinds encreafe, the Love fhall grow.
Then, mixt with Nymphs, on Manalus refort,
I'll make the Boar my danger and my sport.
When, from the Vales the jolly cry refounds,
What rain or cold shall keep me from my Hounds?
Methinks my Ears the sprightly Confort fills;
1feem to bound thro' Woods and mount o'er Hills.
My Arm of a Cydonian Jav'lin seiz'd,
As if by this my madness cou'd be eas'd;
Or, by our mortal woes, the cruel God appeas'd: My frenzy changes now; and Nymphs and Verfe I hate,
And Woods; for ah, what toil can ftubborn Love Shou'd we to drink the frozen Hebrus go, [abate! And fhiver in the cold Sithonian Snow,
Or to the fwarthy Ethiops Clime remove,
Parch'd all below, and burning all above,
Ev'n there wou'd Love o'er-come; then, let us
yield to Love.
Let this fad Lay fuffice, by forrow breath'd,
While bending Twigs I into Baskets wreath'd:
My Rural Numbers, in their homely guife,
Gallus, because they came from me, will prize :
Gallus, whofe growing Love my Breaft does rend,
As fhooting Trees the bursting Bark diftend.
Now rife, for Night and Dew the Fields invade;
And Juniper is an unwholfome fhade: [Mildew fade,
Blafts kill the Corn by Night, and Flow'rs with
Bright Hefper twinkles from afar; away
My Kids, for you have had a feast to day.
Tranflated, or rather Imitated in the
Year 1666.
By Sir William Temple, Bar.
NE labour more, O Arethusa, yield,
Before I leave the Shepherds and the Field:
Some Verfes to my Gallus e're we part,
Such as may one day break Lycoris Heart,
As fhe did his; who can refufe a Song,
To one that lov'd fo well, and dy'd fo young!
So mayft thou thy belov'd Alphens please,
When thou creep'ft under the Sicanian Seas.
Begin, and fing Gallus unhappy fires,
Whilft yonder Goat to yonder branch aspires
Out of his reach. We fing not to the deaf;
An answer comes from every trembling Leaf.
What Woods, what Forefts had intic'd your ftay?
Ye Naiades, why came ye not away!
When Gallus dy'd by an unworthy Flame,
Parnassus knew, and lov'd too well his Name
To ftop your Courfe; nor could your hafty flight
Be ftay'd by Pindus, which was his delight.
Him the fresh Laurels, him the lowly Heath
Bewail'd with dewy Tears; his parting Breath
Made lofty Manalus hang his piny Head;
Lycaan Marbles wept when he was dead.
Under a lonely Tree he lay and pin'd,
His Flock about him feeding on the Wind,
As he on Love; fuch kind and gentle Sheep,
Even fair Adonis would be proud to keep.
There came the Shepherds, there the weary Hinds,
Thither Menalcas parcht with Frofts and Winds.
All ask him whence, for whom this fatal Love?
Apollo came his Arts and Herbs to prove?
Why Gallus why fo fond? he fays; thy flame,
Thy care, Lycoris, is another's game;
For him the fighs and raves, him the pursues
Thorough the mid-day Heats and morning Dews;
Over the fnowy Cliffs and frozen Streams,
Through noifie Camps. Up Gallus, leave thy Dreams,
She has left thee. Still lay the drooping Swain
Hanging his mournful Head, Phœbus in vain
Offers his Herbs, employs his Counsel here;
'Tis all refus'd, or anfwer'd with a Tear.
What shakes the Branches! what makes all the Trees
Begin to bow their Heads, the Goats their Knees?
Oh! 'tis Sylvanus, with his moffie-Beard
And leafy Crown, attended by a Herd
Of Wood-born Satyrs; fee! he fhakes his Spear,
A green young Oak, the tallest of the year.
Pan, the Arcadian God, forfook the Plains,
Mov'd with the ftory of his Gallus pains.
We faw him come with Oaten-pipes in hand,
Painted with Berries-juice; we faw him ftand
And gaze upon his Shepherd's bathing Eyes;
And what! no end, no end of Grief, he cries!
Love little minds all thy confuming care,
Or reflefs Thoughts, they are his daily fare.
Nor cruel Love with tears, nor Grafs with fhow'rs,
Nor Goats with tender fprouts, nor Bees with flow'rs
Are ever fatisfy'd. Thus spoke the God,
And touch'd the Shepherd with his Hazle Rod:
He, forrow flain, feem'd to revive, and faid,
But yet Arcadians is my Grief allay'd,
To think that in thefe Woods, and Hills, and Plains,
When I am filent in the Grave, your Swains
Shall fing my Loves, Arcadian Swains infpir'd
By Phœbus; Oh! how gently fhall these tir'd
And fainting Limbs repofe in endless sleep,
While your sweet Notes my Love immortal keep!
Would it had pleas'd the Gods, I had been born
Juft one of you, and taught to wind a Horn,
Or wield a hook, or prune a branching Vine,
And known no other Love, but, Phyllis, thine;
Or thine, Amyntas; what though both are brown,
So are the Nuts and Berries on the Down ;
Amongst the Vines, the Willows and the Springs,
Phyllis makes Garlands, and Amyntas fings.
No cruel Abfence calls my Love away,
Farther than bleating Sheep can go aftray:
Here my Lycoris, here are fhady Groves,
Here Fountains cool, and Meadows foft, our Loves
And Lives may here together wear, and end:
O the true Joys of fuch a Fate and Friend!
I now am hurried by fevere Commands
Into remotest Parts, among the Bands
Of armed Troops; there by my Foes purfu'd,
Here by my Friends; but ftill my Love fubdu'd.
Thou far from home, and me, art wand'ring o'er
The Alpine Snows, the fartheft Western fhore,
The frozen Rhine. When are we like to meet?
Ah, gently, gently, leaft thy tender Feet
Be cut with Ice. Cover thy lovely Arms;
The Northern cold relents not at their Charms :
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