Thorney, Laben, and Dolein: A Pastoral

Thorney.
Stay, Laben stay, see'st thou not yonder swain?
Methinks I hear him too, in grief complain,
Stranger he is to me, but yet I'll know
The cause, from whence those strains of anguish flow;
He oft has pass'd my cot by break of day,
And as he mov'd, some doleful strain he'd play.

Laben.
Well does he tune his pipe, for yester-morn
I saw him roam on yonder brow forlorn,
Anon he sat him down beneath a tree,
And play'd such sweet and plaintive melody,
The groves were hush'd, the linnets on the plains,
Forgot their own, and listen'd to his strains.

Thorney.
Fair too he seems, and comely in his form,
What pity 'tis, that sorrow should bestorm
A breast so mild, and rob his seemly face,
Of every smile, and every youthful grace.—
Alas, alas, what new afflictions rise!
Fast stream again his sad uplifted eyes.

Laben.
As the pale snow-drop, on its chilly bed
Bending to earth its melancholy head,
So freezing care inclines him to the earth,
Ere time has brought maturity to birth,
See how he heaves, and with desponding look,
Turns his sad eyes upon the heedless brook.

Thorney.
Alas, alas, his dread intent I fear,
Too plain, too plain the symptoms now appear;
O let us fly, and ere it be too late,
Heal his poor bosom, and prevent his fate,
Stop, if we can, the rapid floods of grief,
And if he'll take, we'll give his wants relief.

Dolein.
Ah me! methought, some friendly accents near,
With earnest voice, came whisp'ring to my ear:
'Twas fancy spoke, that gave my wish a tongue,
But hope too long has on my patience hung;
No man shall see my tears, none hear me groan,
No tongue shall tell my tale, I'll die alone.

Thorney.
Live, shepherd live, and be thy woes forgot,
Fate has in store for thee a better lot,
For lo, this swain and I are come to save,
And step between thy sorrows and the grave;
Tell us thy tale, that we may share thy grief,
And give thy laden bosom some relief.

Laben.
Look not amazed, thou solitary swain,
Shew us the cause, the fountain of thy pain,
That we as swift as stock-doves on the wing,
May stop at once the fountain and the spring:
My cot's hard by, there go and seek repose,
Till thou shalt please thy story to disclose.

Dolein.
Ye gentle-hearted swains that sympathize,
And view my wretched plight with flooded eyes,
Ah, would it aught to me or you avail,
I'd tell you o'er and o'er my woeful tale:
Too sad, are now my sorrows, to relate,
Too long the story, and too sure my fate,
For death alone must my physician prove,
I've lost my herds, my lambkins, and my love.

Thorney.
Cease, cease thou sad, thou melancholy swain,
To figh, to weep, to wander and complain;
Nor yet despair, because forlorn and poor,
We've got to spare, and thou shalt share our store,
If death hath robb'd thee of thy constant love,
Some other maid may yet as constant prove.

Dolein.
It cannot be, my firm resolve is made,
My heart is with her in the billows laid,
The cruel floods have wash'd her from my side,
I saw her floating on the dreadful tide,
This frame no more shall keep my soul a slave,
Like her I'll die, within a watry grave.

Laben.
Rash swain, forbear, thy stars may yet be kind,
The waves may pity, and the sighing wind
May waft her yet surviving on the shore;
Hope, and the fates, may yet thy love restore;
Then look more chearful, thou desponding swain,
Thou yet may meet her on the usual plain.

Dolein.
Thou best of friends, thou'st reason'd me to life,
Thou'st set my greatest doubts with hope at strife;
I will suspend awhile my rash design,
The winds and waves may yet my love resign,
May yet in pity to my mad'ning pain,
Let me behold Phidele's eyes again.

Pastoral Ii

Dolein.
Deceive me not, my sad, my wishful eyes,
It is Phidele sure, that yonder lies:
She breathes! she breathes!—ye blessed Fates how kind!
Thanks to my stars, the waters and the wind!
O let me fly, the lovely maid to chear,
And whisper joy and comfort in her ear.

Thorney.
Yet hold fond swain, nor let excess of joy,
Nor greedy love, thy living hopes destroy.
Life faintly seems to glimmer in her eyes,
And soon may be extinguished with surprize,
Let this kind swain and I, with tender care,
First shew the coming pleasure, to the fair.

Dolein.
O fly then, dearest friends, ere't be too late,
Evade, evade, the threat'ning hand of fate,
From your sweet counsel 'tis, that I survive,
And see my dear Phidele yet alive;
On your sweet counsel, Dolein still depends,
Blest be the stars, that sent him two such friends.

Laben.
Like mild physicians, we'll address the maid,
Who sooth the dying, when in anguish laid,
To calm the tides of sorrow and despair,
We'll talk of thee, and chear the drooping fair;
Then when her breast is temper'd for the scene,
We'll say her shepherd comes across the green.

Dolein.
Succeed; and heaven be your next reward,
May angels all your friendly deeds record,
May months of joy, and years of love repay
The faith and friendship, you have shewn to-day.
My grateful heart, my ebbing eyes o'erflows,
Say, how shall Dolein pay the debt he owes?

Thorney.
Behold the fair one press her swelling breast,
As if by phrenzy or by love distress'd;
I'll on and wipe away each scalding tear,
And tell the maiden, that her lover's near:
Look chearful, shepherd, and thou soon shalt see,
We'll crown thy hours with felicity.

Laben.
Sweet maid, give ear, I come with no pretence
To gain thy love, or give thy heart offence,
Thy sorrows and thy story well I know,
I come, my mite of friendship to bestow;
To chear thy soul, to heal each doubt and pain,
To tell thee of thy living, weeping swain.

Phidele.
Blest be thy tongue, thou hospitable swain,
No bird e'er warbled in so sweet a strain.
Does Dolein live? my heart is heal'd with joy,
Shall I again behold my plaintive boy?
Alas, I thought him in the billows laid,
And wish'd to die beneath some gloomy shade.

Thorney.
Behold he comes impatient o'er the plain,
To meet his fair Phidele once again.
Smile, lovely maid, and throw thy fears away,
Thou yet shalt hear him on the mountain play,
Again your flocks shall feed in yonder vale,
Again, by moon-light, hear the nightingale.

Dolein.
My lov'd Phidele has the waves controul'd!
Ye blessed Fates, and do I yet enfold
My dear Phidele in my welcome arms;
The floods were sure asswaged by thy charms,
The winds were sure subdu'd by thy sweet eyes,
And yielded Dolein back his darling prize.

Phidele.
At Dolein's voice the threat'ning winds were hush'd,
Thro' dark'ning clouds the conscious Phoebus blush'd,
The waves that shook the willows with their roar,
In pity wash'd me to the welcome shore;
In pity sure, my shepherd, 'twas to you,
For sure no shepherd yet was half so true.