bet POETRY. 
Sir, To the Editar of the Bee. 
_ none of the early volumes of the Bee I was pleased to see some re- 
marks on pastoral poetry ; and_was in hopes these might have been 
continued, but regret that they have not. I agree with the writer. 
t of these inthinking that there are very few good specimens of pasto- 
ral poetry existing, and that these few are to be found chiefly among 
the rustic compositions of the unlettered muse; for there only we 
meet with nature free from affectation, the great*kane of modern 
, pastorals. I beg leave to send youa specimen of pastoral poetry, 
that pleased me very much; and willbe glad it you give ita 
place in the Bee. It is perfectly devoid of those nauseating com-.~ 
mon places that that so frequently recur in almost every eclogue 
of modern times. I need hardly add that it is taken from the 
poems of Rowley, with the orthographya little modernised. A. 
she ; Tue Hay Fietp, A moral eclogue. 
Woutpst thou see nature pure and unarray’d? 
Visit the lowly cottage of the hind; — 
His art (if any) home-spun and rough made, 
Disguises not the workings of his mind. 
To thee whom simple nature’s lore can charm, 
These words I send, heard late in yillage-farm. 
Man. But whither fair maid do ye go? 
Oh where do ye bend your way ? 
I will be told whither ye go, 
4 I will not be answered nay. 
Woman. I go to the dale, down to Robin and Nell, 
To help ’em at making of hay. 
Man Sir Robert, the parson, has hired me there, 
‘ Come, come, let us hasten away ; [cheers] 
a Weill work and we’ll sing, and we ‘ll make mepry 
4 As long as the long summer’s day. 
— Woman. How hard is it always to work? 
; How full is our sad state of care ? 
“Lady Bridget who lies in the kirk, 
as Deckt with jewels and gold, 
Was of the same mold ;-— 
Why than ours was her fortune more fair ? 
Man. Lo, our good priest is at the gate. , 
Ever ready to counse! his neighbour, 
He'll tell why, whilst some are so great, 
We are dogm’d without ceasing to labour, 
Str Rogert the priest [meditating alone] 
The sultry sun is in his mid career; 
A seed of life from ev’ry beem he theds: 
a * Yet. while his piercing rays the grafs make sear, 
See! the sever’d flowret withers o’erthe meads! 
J - Lost its rich fragrance! lost its vermeil bloom !— 
When sever’d by death’s dart, such is the gen’ral doom: 
