but my flames know neither abatement nor
intermission.--WAKEFIELD.]

[Footnote 55: Variation:

Me love inflames, nor will his fires allay.--POPE.]

[Footnote 56: This is certainly the poorest of Pope's pastorals, and it
has many false thoughts and conceits. But the ingenuous and candid
critic will always bear in mind the early age at which they were
written, and the false taste of Cowley at that time
prevalent.--BOWLES.]

AUTUMN:

THE THIRD PASTORAL,[1]

OR

HYLAS AND AEGON.

TO MR. WYCHERLEY.[2]

Beneath the shade a spreading beech displays,[3]
Hylas and AEgon sung their rural lays;
This mourned a faithless, that an absent love,[4]
And Delia's name and Doris' filled the grove.[5]
Ye Mantuan nymphs, your sacred succour bring; 5
Hylas and AEgon's rural lays I sing.
Thou,[6] whom the nine, with Plautus' wit inspire,
The art of Terence, and Menander's fire;
Whose sense instructs us,[7] and whose humour charms,
Whose judgment sways us, and whose spirit[8] warms! 10
Oh, skilled in nature![9] see the hearts of swains,
Their artless passions, and their tender pains.[10]
Now setting Phoebus shone serenely bright,
And fleecy clouds were streaked with purple light;
When tuneful Hylas with melodious moan, 15
Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan.[11]
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away![12]
To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.
As some sad turtle[13] his lost love deplores
And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores; 20
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, unpitied, and forlorn.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
For her, the feathered quires neglect their song:
For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny; 25
For her, the lilies hang their heads and die.
Ye flow'rs that droop, forsaken by the spring,
Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing,
Ye trees that fade when autumn-heats remove,
Say, is not absence death to those who love?[14] 30
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
Cursed be the fields that cause my Delia's stay;
Fade ev'ry blossom, wither ev'ry tree,[15]
Die ev'ry flower, and perish all but she.
What have I said? where'er my Delia flies,