Elegy XVIII. He Repeats the Song of Colin, a Discerning Shepherd
Near Avon's bank, on Arden's flowery plain,
A tuneful shepherd charm'd the listening wave,
And sunny Cotsol' fondly loved the strain;
Yet not a garland crowns the shepherd's grave!
Oh! lost Ophelia! smoothly flow'd the day,
To feel his music with my flames agree,
To taste the beauties of his melting lay,
To taste, and fancy it was dear to thee.
When, for his tomb, with each revolving year,
I steal the musk-rose from the scented brake,
I strew my cowslips, and I pay my tear,
I'll add the myrtle for Ophelia's sake.
Shivering beneath a leafless thorn he lay,
When Death's chill rigour seized his flowing tongue;
The more I found his faltering notes decay,
The more prophetic truth sublimed the song.
'Adieu, my Flocks!' he said, 'my wonted care,
By sunny mountain, or by verdant shore;
May some more happy hand your fold prepare,
And may you need your Colin's crook no more!
'And you, ye Shepherds! lead my gentle sheep,
To breezy hills, or leafy shelters lead;
But if the sky with showers incessant weep,
Avoid the putrid moisture of the mead.
'Where the wild thyme perfumes the purpled heath,
Long loitering, there your fleecy tribes extend-
But what avail the maxims I bequeath?
The fruitless gift of an officious friend!
'Ah! what avails the timorous lambs to guard,
Though nightly cares with daily labours join,
If foreign sloth obtain the rich reward,
If Gallia's craft the ponderous fleece purloin?
Was it for this, by constant vigils worn,
I met the terrors of an early grave?
For this I led them from the pointed thorn?
For this I bathed them in the lucid wave?
'Ah! heedless Albion! too benignly prone
Thy blood to lavish, and thy wealth resign!
Shall every other virtue grace thy throne,
But quick-eyed Prudence never yet be thine?
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poem by William Shenstone
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