Pastorals (Philips)/The Fifth Pastoral
For other versions of this work, see Fifth Pastoral (Philips).
The Fifth Pastoral.
CUDDY.
In Rural Strains we first our Musick try,
And, bashful into Woods and Thickets fly,
Distrusting of our Skill. Yet, if thro' Time
Our Voice improving gain a Pitch Sublime,
Thy growing Virtues, Sackvil, shall engage
My riper Verse, and my more settled Age.
The Sun, now mounted to the Noon of Day,
Began to shoot direct his burning Ray,
When, with the Flocks, their Feeders sought the Shade,
A Venerable Oak, wide-spreading, made.
What should they do to pass the loit'ring Time?
As Fancy led, each form'd his Tale in Rhyme:
And some the Joys, and some the Pains of Love,
And some to set out strange Adventures strove;
The Trade of Wizzards some, and Merlin's Skill,
And whence to charm such Empire o'er the Will.
Then Cuddy last (who Cuddy can excel,
In neat Device?) his Tale began to tell.
When Shepherds flourish'd in Eliza's Reign,
There liv'd in great Esteem a jolly Swain,
Young Colin Clout; who well could pipe and sing,
And by his Notes invite the lagging Spring.
He, as his Custom was, at leisure laid
In silent Shade, without a Rival play'd.
Drawn by the Magick of th' inticing Sound,
What Crouds of mute Admirers flock'd around!
The Steerlings left their Food; and Creatures wild
By Nature form'd, insensibly grew mild.
He makes the Birds in Troops about him throng,
And loads the neighb'ring Branches with his Song.
Among the rest, a Nightingale of Fame,
Jealous, and fond of Praise, to listen came.
She turn'd her Ear; and Emulous, with Pride,
Like Eccho, to the Shepherd's Pipe reply'd.
The Shepherd heard with Wonder; and again,
To try her more, renew'd his various Strain.
To all his various Strain she shapes her Throat,
And adds peculiar Grace to ev'ry Note.
If Colin, in complaining Accents grieves,
Or brisker Motion to his Measure gives;
If gentle Sounds he modulates, or strong,
She, not a little vain, repeats his Song:
But so repeats, that Colin half despis'd
His Pipe and Skill, so much by others priz'd,
And, sweetest Songster of the Winged Kind,
What Thanks, said he, what Praises can I find
To equal thy melodious Voice? In thee
The Rudeness of my Rural Fife I see;
From thee I learn to vaunt no more my Skill.
Aloft in Air she sate, provoking still
The vanquish'd Swain: Provok'd at last, he strove
To shew the little Minstrel of the Grove
His utmost Art; if so some small Esteem
He might obtain, and Credit lost, redeem.
He draws in Breath, his rising Breast to fill;
Thro' all the Wood his Pipe is heared to shrill.
From Note to Note in haste his Fingers fly;
Still more and more his Numbers multiply;
And now they trill, and now they fall and rise,
And swift and slow they change, with sweet Surprize.
Attentive she doth scarce the Sounds retain,
But to her self first cons the puzzling Strain;
And tracing careful, Note by Note, repays
The Shepherd, in his own harmonious Lays;
Thro' ev'ry changing Cadence runs at length,
And adds in Sweetness, what she wants in Strength.
Then Colin threw his Fife disgrac'd aside;
While she loud Triumph sings, proclaiming wide
Her mighty Conquest. What could Colin more?
A little Harp, of Maple Ware, he bore:
The Harp it self was Old, but Newly strung,
Which usual he a-cross his Shoulders hung.
Now take, delightful Bird, my last Farewel,
He said; and learn from hence, thou dost excel
No trivial Artist. And at last he wound
The murm'ring Strings, and order'd ev'ry Sound.
Then earnest to his Instrument he bends,
And both his Hands upon the Strings extends.
The Strings obey his Touch, and various move,
The lower, answ'ring still to those above.
His restless Fingers traverse to and fro,
And in Pursuit of Harmony they go;
Now, lightly skimming, o'er the Strings they pass,
Like Winds, that gently brush the plying Grass,
And melting Airs arise at their Command:
And now, laborious, with a weighty Hand
He sinks into the Cords with solemn Pace,
And gives the swelling Tones a Manly Grace:
Then, intricate he blends agreeing Sounds,
While Musick thro' the trembling Harp abounds.
The double Sounds the Nightingale perplex,
And pos'd, she does her troubled Spirit vex.
She warbles diffident, 'twixt Hope and Fear,
And hits imperfect Accents, here and there.
Then Colin play'd again, and playing Sung.
She, with the fatal Love of Glory stung,
Hears all in Pain: her Heart begins to swell;
In piteous Notes she sighs, in Notes which tell
Her bitter Anguish. He, still singing, plies
His limber Joints: Her Sorrows higher rise.
How shall she bear a Conqu'ror, who before
No equal, thro' the Grove, in Musick bore?
She droops, she hangs her flagging Wings, she moans,
And fetches from her Breast melodious groans.
Oppress'd with Grief at last, too great to quell,
Down Breathless on the guilty Harp she fell.
Then Colin loud lamented o'er the Dead,
And unavailing Tears profusely shed,
And broke his wicked Strings, and curs'd his Skill;
And, best to make Atonement for the Ill,
(If for such Ill Atonement might be made)
He builds her Tomb beneath a Laurel Shade:
Then adds a Verse, and sets with Flow'rs the Ground,
And makes a Fence of winding Osiers round:
A Verse and Tomb is all I now can give,
And here thy Name at least, he said, shall live.
Thus ended Cuddy with the setting Sun,
And by his Tale unenvy'd Praises won.
In Rural Strains we first our Musick try,
And, bashful into Woods and Thickets fly,
Distrusting of our Skill. Yet, if thro' Time
Our Voice improving gain a Pitch Sublime,
Thy growing Virtues, Sackvil, shall engage
My riper Verse, and my more settled Age.
The Sun, now mounted to the Noon of Day,
Began to shoot direct his burning Ray,
When, with the Flocks, their Feeders sought the Shade,
A Venerable Oak, wide-spreading, made.
What should they do to pass the loit'ring Time?
As Fancy led, each form'd his Tale in Rhyme:
And some the Joys, and some the Pains of Love,
And some to set out strange Adventures strove;
The Trade of Wizzards some, and Merlin's Skill,
And whence to charm such Empire o'er the Will.
Then Cuddy last (who Cuddy can excel,
In neat Device?) his Tale began to tell.
When Shepherds flourish'd in Eliza's Reign,
There liv'd in great Esteem a jolly Swain,
Young Colin Clout; who well could pipe and sing,
And by his Notes invite the lagging Spring.
He, as his Custom was, at leisure laid
In silent Shade, without a Rival play'd.
Drawn by the Magick of th' inticing Sound,
What Crouds of mute Admirers flock'd around!
The Steerlings left their Food; and Creatures wild
By Nature form'd, insensibly grew mild.
He makes the Birds in Troops about him throng,
And loads the neighb'ring Branches with his Song.
Among the rest, a Nightingale of Fame,
Jealous, and fond of Praise, to listen came.
She turn'd her Ear; and Emulous, with Pride,
Like Eccho, to the Shepherd's Pipe reply'd.
The Shepherd heard with Wonder; and again,
To try her more, renew'd his various Strain.
To all his various Strain she shapes her Throat,
And adds peculiar Grace to ev'ry Note.
If Colin, in complaining Accents grieves,
Or brisker Motion to his Measure gives;
If gentle Sounds he modulates, or strong,
She, not a little vain, repeats his Song:
But so repeats, that Colin half despis'd
His Pipe and Skill, so much by others priz'd,
And, sweetest Songster of the Winged Kind,
What Thanks, said he, what Praises can I find
To equal thy melodious Voice? In thee
The Rudeness of my Rural Fife I see;
From thee I learn to vaunt no more my Skill.
Aloft in Air she sate, provoking still
The vanquish'd Swain: Provok'd at last, he strove
To shew the little Minstrel of the Grove
His utmost Art; if so some small Esteem
He might obtain, and Credit lost, redeem.
He draws in Breath, his rising Breast to fill;
Thro' all the Wood his Pipe is heared to shrill.
From Note to Note in haste his Fingers fly;
Still more and more his Numbers multiply;
And now they trill, and now they fall and rise,
And swift and slow they change, with sweet Surprize.
Attentive she doth scarce the Sounds retain,
But to her self first cons the puzzling Strain;
And tracing careful, Note by Note, repays
The Shepherd, in his own harmonious Lays;
Thro' ev'ry changing Cadence runs at length,
And adds in Sweetness, what she wants in Strength.
Then Colin threw his Fife disgrac'd aside;
While she loud Triumph sings, proclaiming wide
Her mighty Conquest. What could Colin more?
A little Harp, of Maple Ware, he bore:
The Harp it self was Old, but Newly strung,
Which usual he a-cross his Shoulders hung.
Now take, delightful Bird, my last Farewel,
He said; and learn from hence, thou dost excel
No trivial Artist. And at last he wound
The murm'ring Strings, and order'd ev'ry Sound.
Then earnest to his Instrument he bends,
And both his Hands upon the Strings extends.
The Strings obey his Touch, and various move,
The lower, answ'ring still to those above.
His restless Fingers traverse to and fro,
And in Pursuit of Harmony they go;
Now, lightly skimming, o'er the Strings they pass,
Like Winds, that gently brush the plying Grass,
And melting Airs arise at their Command:
And now, laborious, with a weighty Hand
He sinks into the Cords with solemn Pace,
And gives the swelling Tones a Manly Grace:
Then, intricate he blends agreeing Sounds,
While Musick thro' the trembling Harp abounds.
The double Sounds the Nightingale perplex,
And pos'd, she does her troubled Spirit vex.
She warbles diffident, 'twixt Hope and Fear,
And hits imperfect Accents, here and there.
Then Colin play'd again, and playing Sung.
She, with the fatal Love of Glory stung,
Hears all in Pain: her Heart begins to swell;
In piteous Notes she sighs, in Notes which tell
Her bitter Anguish. He, still singing, plies
His limber Joints: Her Sorrows higher rise.
How shall she bear a Conqu'ror, who before
No equal, thro' the Grove, in Musick bore?
She droops, she hangs her flagging Wings, she moans,
And fetches from her Breast melodious groans.
Oppress'd with Grief at last, too great to quell,
Down Breathless on the guilty Harp she fell.
Then Colin loud lamented o'er the Dead,
And unavailing Tears profusely shed,
And broke his wicked Strings, and curs'd his Skill;
And, best to make Atonement for the Ill,
(If for such Ill Atonement might be made)
He builds her Tomb beneath a Laurel Shade:
Then adds a Verse, and sets with Flow'rs the Ground,
And makes a Fence of winding Osiers round:
A Verse and Tomb is all I now can give,
And here thy Name at least, he said, shall live.
Thus ended Cuddy with the setting Sun,
And by his Tale unenvy'd Praises won.