As a fair nymph, when rising from her bed, With sparkling diamonds dresses not her head, But without gold, or pearl, or costly scents, Gathers from neighbouring fields her ornaments; Such, lovely in its dress, but plain withal, Ought to appear a perfect Pastoral. Its humble method nothing has of fierce, But hates the rattling of a lofty verse; There native beauty pleases, and excites, And never with harsh sounds the ear affrights. But in this style a poet often spent, In rage throws by his rural instrument, And vainly, when disordered thoughts abound, Amidst the Eclogue makes the trumpet sound: Pan flies alarmed into the neighbouring woods, And frighted nymphs dive down into the floods. Opposed to this, another, low in style, Makes shepherds speak a language base and vile: His writings, flat and heavy, without sound, Kissing the earth, and creeping on the ground, You'd swear that Randal, in his rustic strains,[68] Again was quavering to the country swains, And changing, without care of sound or dress, Strephon and Phyllis, into Tom and Bess. 'Twixt these extremes 'tis hard to keep the right; For guides take Virgil, and read Theocrite: Be their just writings, by the Gods inspired, Your constant pattern, practised, and admired. By them alone you'll easily comprehend How poets, without shame, may condescend To sing of gardens, fields, of flowers, and fruit, To stir up shepherds, and to tune the flute; Of love's rewards to tell the happy hour, Daphne a tree, Narcissus made a flower, And by what means the Eclogue yet has power To make the woods worthy a conqueror: This of their writings is the grace and flight; Their risings lofty, yet not out of sight. ELEGY. The Elegy, that loves a mournful style, With unbound hair weeps at a funeral pile; It paints the lover's torments and delights, A mistress flatters, threatens, and invites: But well these raptures if you'll make us see, You must know love as well as poetry. I hate those lukewarm authors, whose forced fire In a cold style describes a hot desire; That sigh by rule, and, raging in cold blood, Their sluggish muse whip to an amorous mood: Their feigned transports appear but flat and vain; They always sigh, and always hug their chain, Adore their prison, and their sufferings bless, Make sense and reason quarrel as they please. 'Twas not of old in this affected tone, That smooth Tibullus made his amorous moan; Nor Ovid, when instructed from above, By nature's rules he taught the art of love. The heart in Elegies forms the discourse. ODE.