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TITYRUS.

Alexis, read; what means this mystic thing? An ewe I had, two lambs at once did bring ; The one black as jet; the other white as snow: Say, in just providence how it could be so?

ALEXIS.

Will you, Pan's goodness therefore partial call, That might as well have given thee none at all?

TITYRUS.

Were they not both yean'd by the self-same ewe?
How could they merit then so different hue?
Poor lamb, alas! and couldst thou, yet unborn,
Sin to deserve the guilt of such a scorn!
Thou hadst not yet foul'd a religious spring,
Nor fed on plots of hallow'd grass, to bring
Stains to thy fleece; nor browz'd upon a tree
Sacred to Pan or Pales' deity.

The gods are ignorant if they not foreknow;
And knowing, 'tis unjust to use thee so.

ALEXIS.

Tityr with me contend, or Corydon ;
But let the gods and their high wills alone.
For in our flocks that freedom challenge we :
This kid is sacrific'd, and that goes free.

TITYRUS.

Feed where you will, my lambs; what boots it us To watch, and water, fold, and drive you thus.

This on the barren mountains flesh can glean,
That fed in flow'ry pastures will be lean.

ALEXIS.

Plow, sow, and compass, nothing boots at all,
Unless the dew upon the tilths do fall.
So labour, silly shepherds, what we can,
All's vain, unless a blessing drop from Pan.

TITYRUS.

Ill thrive thy ewes if thou these lies maintain.

ALEXIS.

And may thy goats miscarry, saucy swain.

THYRSIS.

Fie, shepherds, fie! while you these strifes begin,
Here creeps the wolf, and there the fox gets in;
To your vain piping on so deep a reed

The lambkins listen, but forget to feed;
It gentle swains befits of love to sing,

How love left heaven, and heav'n's immortal King,
His co-eternal Father: O admire,

Love is a son as ancient as his sire;'

His mother was a virgin: how could come
A birth so great, and from so chaste a womb?
His cradle was a manger-shepherds, see

True faith delights in poor simplicity.

He press'd no grapes, nor prun'd the fruitful vine, But could of water make a brisker wine;

Nor did he plough the earth, and to his barn

The harvest bring; nor thresh and grind the corn.
Without all these Love could supply our need,
And with five loaves, five thousand hungers feed.
More wonders did he; for all which suppose
How he was crown'd with lily, or with rose,
The winding ivy, or the glorious bay,
Or myrtle, with the which Venus, they say,
Girts her proud temples! Shepherds, none of
them;

But wore, poor head! a thorny diadem.

Feet to the lame he gave; with which they run
To work their surgeon's last destruction.

The blind from him had eyes; but used that light
Like basilisks to kill him with their sight.

Lastly, he was betray'd, (O sing of this)
How Love could be betray'd! 'twas with a kiss.
And then his innocent hands, and guiltless feet
Were nail'd unto the cross, striving to meet
In his spread arms his spouse: so mild in show
He seem'd to court th' embraces of his foe.
Through his pierc'd side, through which a spear
was sent,

A torrent of all-flowing balsam went.

Run Amarillis, run: one drop from thence
Cures thy sad soul, and drives all anguish hence.
Go, sun-burnt Thestylis, go and repair
Thy beauty lost, and be again made fair;
Love-sick Amyntas get a philtrum here,
To make thee lovely to thy truly dear.
But coy Licoris, take the pearl from thine,
And take the blood-shot from Alexis' eyne.
Wear this, an amulet 'gainst all syrens' smiles,
The stings of snakes, and tears of crocodiles,
Now, Love is dead :—Oh, no, he never dies!
Three days he sleeps, and then again doth rise,

(Like fair Aurora from the eastern bay,)

And with his beams drives all our clouds away:
This pipe unto our flocks; this sonnet get.
But ho! I see the sun ready to set:

Good night to all; for the great night is come:
Flocks, to your folds; and, shepherds, hie you home;
To-morrow morning, when we all have slept,

Pan's' cornet's blown, and the great sheep-shear 's kept.

The Saviour is frequently celebrated, by our elder poets, under the name of Pan.

WILLIAM HABINGDON.

BORN 1605; DIED 1654.

He was author of "Observations on History,' " "History of Edward the Fourth," "The Queen of Arragon, a Tragedy;" and a volume of lyrics, entitled, "Castara." In Mr. Elton's excellent edition, (Bristol, 1812,) this volume is divided into four parts; the first and second consisting of poems in which he celebrates his wife, the Lady Lucia, daughter of Lord Powis, before and after their marriage, in a style honourable alike to the virtue of the lady, and to the chaste but fervent passion of the poet; the third comprising Funeral Elegies; the fourth, Devotional Pieces. The "Castara" is among the most exquisite productions of the kind; whether in regard to the purity of its sentiments, the moral weight and dignity of its thoughts, or the force and sweetness of its language.

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