With eyes up-raised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired; And, from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And, dashing soft from rocks around Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. [Sidenote: GEORGE SMITH'S ECLOGUE] Collins is Chichester's great poet. She had a very agreeable minor poet, too, in George Smith, one of the Three Smiths--all artists: William, born in 1707, painter of portraits and of fruit and flower pieces, and George and John, born in 1713 and 1717, who painted landscapes,--known collectively as the Smiths of Chichester. I mention them rather on account of George Smith's poetical experiments than for the brothers' fame as artists; but there is such a pleasant flavour in one at least of his _Pastorals_ that I have copied a portion of it. It is called "The Country Lovers; or, Isaac and Marget going to Town on a Summer's Morning." The town is probably Chichester--certainly one in Sussex and near the Downs. Isaac speaks first:-- Come! Marget, come!--the team is at the gate! Not ready yet!--you always make me wait! I omit a certain amount of the dialogue which follows, but at last Marget exclaims:-- Well, now I'm ready, long I have not staid. ISAAC. One kiss before we go, my pretty maid. MARGET. Go! don't be foolish, Isaac--get away! Who loiters now?--I thought I could not stay! There!--that's enough! why, Isaac, sure you're mad! ISAAC. One more, my dearest girl-- MARGET. Be quiet, lad. See both my cap and hair are rumpled o'er! The tying of my beads is got before! ISAAC. There let it stay, thy brighter blush to show, Which shames the cherry-colour'd silken bow. Thy lips, which seem the scarlet's hue to steal, Are sweeter than the candy'd lemon peel. MARGET. Pray take these chickens for me to the cart; Dear little creatures, how it grieves my heart To see them ty'd, that never knew a crime, And formed so fine a flock at feeding time! The pretty poem ends with fervid protestations of devotion from Isaac:-- For thee the press with apple-juice shall foam! For thee the bees shall quit their honey-comb! For thee the elder's purple fruit shall grow! For thee the pails with cream shall overflow! But see yon teams returning from the town, Wind in the chalky wheel-ruts o'er the down: We now must haste; for if we longer stay, They'll meet us ere we leave the narrow way.