[
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
.