The warbling nightingale in woods complains; While Procne makes on chimney-tops her moan, And hovers o'er the palace once her own. Whatever songs besides the Delphian god Had taught the laurels, and the Spartan flood, Silenus sung: the vales his voice rebound, And carry to the skies the sacred sound. And now the setting sun had warned the swain } To call his counted cattle from the plain: } Yet still the unwearied sire pursues the tuneful strain, } Till, unperceived, the heavens with stars were hung, And sudden night surprised the yet unfinished song. FOOTNOTES: [299] My Lord Roscommon's notes on this Pastoral are equal to his excellent translation of it; and thither I refer the reader. The Eighth and Tenth Pastorals are already translated, to all manner of advantage, by my excellent friend Mr Stafford. So is the episode of Camilla, in the Eleventh Æneïd. PASTORAL VII. OR, _MELIBOEUS_. ARGUMENT. _Meliboeus here gives us the relation of a sharp poetical contest between Thyrsis and Corydon, at which he himself and Daphnis were present; who both declared for Corydon._ Beneath a holm, repaired two jolly swains, (Their sheep and goats together grazed the plains,) Both young Arcadians, both alike inspired To sing, and answer as the song required. Daphnis, as umpire, took the middle seat, And fortune thither led my weary feet; For, while I fenced my myrtles from the cold, The father of my flock had wandered from the fold. Of Daphnis I inquired: he, smiling, said, "Dismiss your fear;" and pointed where he fed: "And, if no greater cares disturb your mind, Sit here with us, in covert of the wind. Your lowing heifers, of their own accord, At watering time will seek the neighbouring ford. Here wanton Mincius winds along the meads, And shades his happy banks with bending reeds. And see, from yon old oak that mates the skies, How black the clouds of swarming bees arise." What should I do? nor was Alcippe nigh, Nor absent Phyllis could my care supply, To house, and feed by hand my weaning lambs, And drain the strutting udders of their dams. Great was the strife betwixt the singing swains; And I preferred my pleasure to my gains. Alternate rhyme the ready champions chose: These Corydon rehearsed, and Thyrsis those. CORYDON. Ye Muses, ever fair, and ever young, Assist my numbers, and inspire my song. With all my Codrus, O! inspire my breast; For Codrus, after Phoebus, sings the best. Or, if my wishes have presumed too high, And stretched their bounds beyond mortality, The praise of artful numbers I resign, And hang my pipe upon the sacred pine. THYRSIS.