CORYDON
:
A
PASTORAL
.
To
the
Memory
of
WILLIAM
SHENSTONE
,
Esq
BY
THE
SAME
.
I.
COME
,
shepherds
,
we'll
follow
the
hearse
,
We'll
see
our
lov'd
Corydon
laid
,
Tho'
sorrow
may
blemish
the
verse
,
Yet
let
a
sad
tribute
be
paid
.
They
call'd
him
the
pride
of
the
plain
;
In
sooth
he
was
gentle
and
kind
!
He
mark'd
on
his
elegant
strain
The
graces
that
glow'd
in
his
mind
.
II
.
On
purpose
he
planted
yon
trees
,
That
birds
in
the
covert
might
dwell
;
He
cultur'd
his
thyme
for
the
bees
,
But
never
wou'd
rifle
their
cell
.
Ye
lambkins
that
play'd
at
his
feet
,
Go
bleat
—
and
your
master
bemoan
;
His
music
was
artless
and
sweet
,
His
manners
as
mild
as
your
own
.
III
.
No
verdure
shall
cover
the
vale
,
No
bloom
on
the
blossoms
appear
;
The
sweets
of
the
forest
shall
fail
,
And
winter
discolour
the
year
.
No
birds
in
our
hedges
shall
sing
,
(
Our
hedges
so
vocal
before
)
Since
he
that
should
welcome
the
spring
,
Can
greet
the
gay
season
no
more
.
IV
.
His
Phillis
was
fond
of
his
praise
,
And
poets
came
round
in
a
throng
;
They
listen'd
,
—
they
envy'd
his
lays
,
But
which
of
them
equal'd
his
song
?
Ye
shepherds
,
henceforward
be
mute
,
For
lost
is
the
pastoral
strain
;
So
give
me
my
Corydon's
flute
,
And
thus
—
let
me
break
it
in
twain
.