Your talents are employ'd for use,
Mine to give pleasure, and amuse.
And though, dear Coz, no folks of taste
Their idle hours with you will waste,
Yet many a grist comes to your mill,
Which helps your master's bags to fill:
While I, with all my notes and trilling,
For Damon never got a shilling.
Then, gentle Coz, forbear your clamours,
Enjoy your hoppers, and your hammers :
We gain our ends by different ways,
And you get bread, and I get—praise.'
WHEN o'er the western world fair Science spread
Her genial ray, and Gothic darkness fled,
To Britain's Isle the Muses took their way,
And taught her listening groves the tuneful lay.
"Twas then two swains the Doric reed essay'd,
To sing the praises of a peerless maid.
On Arden's blissful plain her seat she chose,
And hence her rural name Ardenna rose.
In sportive verse alternately they vied;
Thus Damon sang, and Lycidas replied.
Here, gentle swain, beneath the shade reclined,
Remit thy labours, and unbend thy mind.
Well with the shepherd's state our cares agree,
For Nature prompts to pleasing industry:
"Tis this to all her gifts fresh beauty yields,
Health to our flocks, and plenty to our fields.
Yet hath she not imposed unceasing toil,
Not restless ploughshares always vex the soil.
Then, shepherd, take the blessings Heaven beAssist the song, and sweeten our repose. [stows,
While others, sunk in sleep, or live in vain,
Or, slaves of indolence, but wake to pain,
Me let the call of earliest birds invite
To hail the' approaches of returning light;
To taste the freshness of the cheerful morn,
While glistering dewdrops hang on every thorn.
Hence all the bliss that centres in our kind,
Health to the blood and vigour to the mind:
Hence every task its meet attendance gains,
And leisure hence, to listen to thy strains.
Thrice happy swain, so fitly form'd to share
The shepherd's labour and Ardenna's care!
To tell Ardenna's praise, the rural train
Inscribe the verse or chant it o'er the plain.
Plains, hills, and woods, return the well known
And the smooth beech records the sportive wound. Then, Lycidas, let us the chorus join,
So bright a theme our music shall refine.
Escaped from all the busy world admires, Hither the philosophic dame retires; For in the busy world (or poets feign) Intemperate vice and giddy pleasures reign; Then, when from crowds the Loves and Graces flew,
To these lone shades the beauteous maid withdrew, To study Nature in this calm retreat,
And with confederate Art her charms complete.
How sweet their union is, ye shepherds, say,
And thou who form'dst the reed, inspire my lay.
Her praise I sing by whom our flocks are freed
From the rough bramble, and envenom'd weed;
Who to green pastures turns the dreary waste,
With scatter'd woods in careless beauty graced.
'Tis she, Ardenna! Guardian of the scene,
Who bids the mount to swell, who smooths the
green,
[flood
Who drains the marsh, and frees the struggling
From its divided rule, and strife with mud.
She winds its course the copious stream to show,
And she in swifter currents bids it flow;
Now smoothly gliding with an even pace,
Now dimpling o'er the stones with roughen'd grace;
With glassy surface now serenely bright,
Now foaming from the rock all silver white,
'Tis she the rising bank with beeches crowns, Now spreads the scene, and now contracts its bounds;
Clothes the bleak hill with verdure ever gay,
And bids our feet through myrtle valleys stray.
She for her shepherds rears the rooty shed,
The chequer'd pavement, and the straw-wove bed,
For them she scoops the grotto's cool retreat,
From storms a shelter, and a shade in heat:
Directs their hands the verdant arch to bend,
And with the leafy roof its gloom extend.
Shells, flint, and ore their mingled graces join,
And rocky fragments aid the chaste design.
Hail, happy lawns! where'er we turn our eyes Fresh beauties bloom, and opening wonders rise,
Whilom these charming scenes with grief I view'd
A barren waste, a dreary solitude!
My drooping flocks their russet pastures mourn'd,
And lowing herds the plaintive moan return'd:
With weary feet from field to field they stray'd,
Nor found their hunger's painful sense allay'd.
But now no more a dreary scene appears,
No more its prickly boughs the bramble rears,
No more my flocks lament the' unfruitful soil,
Nor mourn their ragged fleece, or fruitless toil.
As this fair lawn excels the rushy mead,
As firs the thorn, and flowers the poisonous weed,
Far as the warbling skylarks soar on high
Above the clumsy bat, or buzzing fly;
So matchless moves Ardenna o'er the green,
In mind alike excelling as in mien.
Sweet is the fragrance of the damask rose,
And bright the dye that on its surface glows;
Fair is the poplar rising on the plain,
Of shapely trunk, and lofty branches vain;
But neither sweet the rose, nor bright its dye,
Nor poplar fair, if with her charms they vie.
Grateful is sunshine to the sportive lambs,
The balmy dews delight the nibbling dams;
But kindlier warmth Ardenna's smiles impart,
A balm more rich her lessons to the heart.
No more Pomona's guiding hand we need,
Nor Flora's help to paint the' enamel'd mead.
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