Elegy XVIII. He repeats the song of Colin, a discerning shepherd, lamenting the state of the woollen manufactory

NEAR Avon's bank, on Arden's flow'ry plain,
A tuneful shepherd charm'd the list'ning wave,
And sunny Cotsol' fondly lov'd 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.

Shiv'ring beneath a leafless thorn he lay,
When Death's chill rigour seiz'd his flowing tongue;
The more I found his falt'ring notes decay,
The more prophetic truth sublim'd 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 show'rs incessant weep,
" Avoid the putrid moisture of the mead.

" Where the wild thyme perfumes the purpled heath,
" Long loit'ring, there your fleecy tribes extend—
" But what avails the maxims I bequeath?
" The fruitless gift of an officious friend!

" Ah! what avails the tim'rous lambs to guard,
" Tho' nightly cares with daily labours join,
" If foreign sloth obtain the rich reward,
" If Gallia's craft the pond'rous fleece purloin?

" Was it for this, by constant vigils worn,
" I met the terrors of an early grave?
" For this I led 'em from the pointed thorn?
" For this I bath'd 'em in the lucid wave?

" Ah! heedless Albion! too benignly prone
" Thy blood to lavish and thy wealth resign!
" Shall ev'ry other virtue grace thy throne,
" But quick-ey'd Prudence never yet be thine?

" From the fair natives of this peerless hill
" Thou gav'st the sheep that browze Iberian plains;
" Their plaintive cries the faithless region fill,
" Their fleece adorns an haughty foe's domains.

" Ill-fated flocks! from cliff to cliff they stray;
" Far from their dams, their native guardians, far!
" Where the soft shepherd, all the livelong day,
" Chants his proud mistress to his hoarse guittar.

" But Albion's youth her native fleece despise;
" Unmov'd they hear the pining shepherd's moan;
" In silky folds each nervous limb disguise,
" Allur'd by ev'ry treasure but their own.

" Oft' have I hurry'd down the rocky steep,
" Anxious to see the wintry tempest drive;
" Preserve," said I, "preserve your fleece, my Sheep!
" Ere long will Phillis, will my love, arrive.

" Ere long she came: ah! woe is me! she came,
" Rob'd in the Gallic loom's extraneous twine;
" For gifts like these they give their spotless fame,
" Resign their bloom, their innocence resign.

" Will no bright maid, by worth, by titles, known,
" Give the rich growth of British hills to Fame?
" And let her charms, and her example, own
" That Virtue's dress and Beauty's are the same?

" Will no fam'd chief support this gen'rous maid?
" Once more the patriot's arduous path resume?
" And, comely from his native plains array'd,
" Speak future glory to the British loom?

" What pow'r unseen my ravish'd fancy fires?
" I pierce the dreary shade of future days;
" Sure 'tis the genius of the land inspires,
" To breathe my latest breath in *** praise.

" O might my breath for *** praise suffice,
" How gently should my dying limbs repose!
" O might his future glory bless mine eyes,
" My ravish'd eyes! how calmly would they close!

" *** was born to spread the gen'ral joy;
" By virtue rapt, by party uncontroll'd;
" Britons for Britain shall the crook employ;
" Britons for Britain's glory shear the fold."