The pilgrim that journeys all day

To visit fome far diftant shrine, If he bear but a relique away,

Is happy, nor heard to repine. Thus widely remov'd from the fair, Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,

Soft Hope is the relique I bear,

And my folace wherever I go.

II. HOPE.

MY banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to fleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white over with sheep, I seldom have met with a lofs,

Such health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains, all border'd with mofs,
Where the hare-bells and violets grow.

Not a pine in my grove is there feen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound:
Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a sweet-briar twines it around.

Not my fields in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold:
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,

But it glitters with fishes of gold.

One would think she might like to retire
To the bow'r I had labour'd to rear;
Not a shrub that I heard her admire

But I hasted and planted it there.
O how fudden the jeffamine strove

With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love,

To prune the wild branches away.

From the plains, from the woodlands, and groves, What strains of wild melody flow!

How the nightingales warble their loves,

From thickets of roses that blow!

And when her bright form shall appear,

Each bird shall harmoniously join

In a concert fo foft and fo clear,

As

she may not be fond to refign.

I have found out a gift for my fair,

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed:

But let me that plunder forbear;

She will fay 'twas a barbarous deed.

For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd,

Who could rob a poor bird of its young: And I lov'd her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

I have heard her with fweetnefs unfold

How that pity was due to a dove:
That it ever attended the bold,

And she call'd it the fifter of Love.
But her words fuch a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her fpeak, and, whatever she fay,
Methinks I should love her the more.

Can a bofom fo gentle remain

Unmov'd, when her Corydon fighs?
Will anymph that is fond of the plain,
These plains, and this valley despise?
Dear regions of filence and shade!

Soft fcenes of contentment and ease!
Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,
If aught, in her absence, could please.

But where does my Phyllida stray?

And where are her grots and her bow'rs?
Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
And the shepherds as gentle as ours?
The groves may, perhaps, be as fair,
And the face of the valleys as fine;
The fwains may in manners compare,
But their love is not equal to mine.

III SOLICITUDE.

WHY will you my paffion reprove?
Why 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 engages the free;
With her modefty pleases the grave;
She is ev'ry way pleasing to me.
O you that have been of her train,

Come and join in my amorous lays;
I could lay down my life for the swain
That will fing but a fong in her praise.
When he fings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and liften the while;

Nay, on him let not Phyllida frown;

But-I cannot allow her to smile.

For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis 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 beftudded around;
And his pipe-Oh! may Phyllis beware

Of a magic there is in the found.

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'Tis his with mock paffion to glow;
'Tis his in fmooth words to unfold,
How her face is as bright as the fnow,
And her bofom, be fure, 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 or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
Then, fuiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
O Phyllis,,, he whispers,,, more fair,

More sweet than the jefsamine's flow'r! What are pinks, in a morn, to compare?

What is eglantine after a show'r?

Then the lily no longer is white,

Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom;

Then the violets die with despight,

And the woodbines give up their perfume.,,

Thus glide the foft numbers along,

And he fancies no shepherd his peer;

Yet I never should envy the song,

Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear