$24: 
so fascinating, that the pat (ike the old 
woman in the adage) would kiss his 
cow, 
The third is asad line, and that evi- 
dently for the measure and the rhyme. 
Taki ng It as it stands, ane (to adopt the 
author’s phrase) would imagine, that in 
this Elysian retreat there were various 
sorts of brooks, some limpid and clear, 
others dirty and muddy ; and that only 
in the former glitter the “ fishes of gold” 
—not literally gold fishes, but fishes from 
their brilliance ‘painted as of gad, for the 
sake of a rhyme to unfold, a word in it- 
self not here the most felicitous. 
¢¢ One would think she might like to re- 
tire 
To the bow’r I have labour’d to rear; 
Not a shrub that I heard her admire, 
Rut I hasted and planted it there.” 
Here we have a delectable repetition 
of the. favourite monosyllables one, not, 
and bué. It was very cruel in Phillis, al- 
ter her Corydon’s hard labour in rearing 
this bower, that she would not retire to 
enjoy its beauties. 
‘¢ From the plains, from the woodlands, and 
groves, 
What strains of wild melody flow! 
How the nightingales warble their loves, 
Frem the thickets of roses that blow!” 
4 
The that blow is a sad tag to furnish a 
rhyme to flow. On this stanza occurs 
an observation similar to that on the 
third—it is not common for nightingales 
to warble their loves from thickets of 
roses. 
A cotemporary poet®, who mourned 
the death cf Shenstone in the same pas- 
toral measure, has improved on the pre- 
ceding passage, by not only making 
nightingales sing on trees, but that in the 
north of Scotland, where never nightin- 
gale sang before. —In his song, Lhe Banks 
of the Dee, he says, 
«6 °Twas summer when softly the breezes 
were blowing, 
~ And sweetly the fe Sodio sang from each 
tree, 
At the foot of a rock where the river was 
flowing, 
I sat myself down on the banks of the 
Dee.” 
The stanzas as to the wood: pigeon’s 
nest, as well as all that follow, have much 
merit. It is very odd, that our poet 
should be so exceptionabie in the begin- 
* John Tait, Esq. who now, as Judge of 
Police at Edinburgh, wields his pen, like 
our Poet Laureat, to send rogues and prosti- 
tutes to Bridewell. 
: <4 
Cn Pastoral Poetry. 
[May 1, 
ning of his parts, and conclude vans ex- 
cellence! 
Part JIL—Solicitude. sa P hes com- 
mencement of this part completely be=: 
lies my observation on the conclusion of 
the last. I must have the pleasure. of 
transcribing it: 
66 Why will you my pa ssien reprove ? 
biel term it.a folly to grieve ? 
Ere I shew you the charms of my love: 
She is fairer than you can believe, 
With her mien she enamours the brave; * 
With her wit she engaves the free 3 
With her modesty please s the graves 
~ She is év’ry way pleasing to mie.” 
Had all the ballad been written with 
this charming simplicity, T should’ have 
burned a gross of pens, ere L had dipped 
one of them in ink to attack a perform= 
ance of such real merit. Some beauti- 
ful lines also follow. Ido not see how L 
can fix my ideasinthe mind of the reader, 
who may happen not to have Shenstone 
by him, but by copying the whole of the 
“remainder. 
«¢ © you that have heen of her train, 
Come and join in my amorous lays ; 
T would lay down my lif for the swain, 
That will sing but a. song in her praise. 
When he sings, may the nymphs of the 
town 
Come trooping and listen the while ; 
Nay on him let not Phyilida frown,— 
But I cannot allow her to smile.” 
This is a genuine picture of Love and its 
attendant Jealousy—only the “ nymphs 
of the town” would better suit a Covent- 
Garden pastoral, than that of the ena- 
moured Corydon, 
‘¢ For when Paridel tries, in the dance, ° 
Any favour with Phillis to find, 
O how, with one trivial glance, 
Might she ruin the peace of my mind ! 
In ringlets he dresses his hair, 
And his crook is bestudded around, 
And his pipe—Oh may Phillis beware 
Of the magic there is in the sound!” 
The above picture of a beau shepherd 
is very happy. The break after © his 
pipe” is truly poetical. 
‘6 °Tis his with mock passion to glow; 
*Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, 
How her face is as bright as the snow, 
And her bosom, be sure, is as cold. — 
How the nightingales labour the strain, 
With the notes of his charmer to vie; 
How they vary their accents in vain, 
Repine at her triumphs, and die. 
‘* To the grove, to the garden he strays, 
And pillages every sweet; 
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays, 
He throws it at Phillis’s feet. 
‘O Phillis» 
