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the Greeks, was miscellaneous and general. It designated what we style Fugitive Poetry; and such also, among the Latins, are the Eidyllia of Claudian and Ausonius. Thus, in Theocritus, besides the country eclogue, we find, under the title of Idyll, the dramatic town-eclogue; the epithalamium; the panegyric; and the tale of heroic mythology. The coarse indecency of allusion, in some passages, may be objected to with better reason: not as unsuitable to that innocence of an ideal golden age, which has been foolishly thought essential to pastoral; for the only pastoral,* that has either value or intelligible meaning, is, properly, a representation of common life rural manners, and rural scenes, as they are; but these passages are objectionable in every sense. They show

*The finest specimens of modern pastoral, with which I am acquainted, are the poems of "Michael" and "The Brothers" by Mr. Wordsworth. They are, on all accounts, so eminently beautiful, that it is deeply to be regretted that Mr. Wordsworth did not complete a series of pastoral poems, descriptive of scenes from mountain life, and illustrative of the rustic habits and affections.

character indeed; but it is character that were better hidden: the depraved grossness of manners corrupted, and of human nature degenerated.



I Go to pipe my Amaryllis' praise;

My flock of goats upon the mountain strays, And Tityrus drives them: let them browze the


My darling boy! and lead them to the rill,
But that white buck beware, in Afric bred,
For fear he gore thee with his butting head.
Sweet Amaryllis! why, no longer laid
All at thy length, beneath this cave's cool shade,
Do you not lisp me fondly, as of late,
Your little love? or am I, now, your hate?
Seem I a flat-nosed Satyr, with long beard,
Coy damsel? ah! thus flouted, scorn'd, and jeer'd,
Look! for thee
The noose will surely end me.
I bring ten apples, gather'd from the tree:
I pull❜d them in the very grove where thou
Didst bid me pull them; and will strip the bough

Of others, when the morrow paints the sky:
Look on my bosom's aches with melting eye.
Oh! would I might become a humming bee
To pierce thy grot, invisible to thee;
Creep midst the fillet that thy hair inweaves,
And whisper through its fern and ivy-leaves!
Now know I Love: a cruel God, who press'd
With sucking lips the lioness's breast;
Rear'd by that mother in some savage wood,
He thrills my marrow; he consumes my blood.
Oh gem! oh soft-eyed maid, of blackest brow,
Thy clinging arms around thy shepherd throw:
That he thy pouting lips may closely kiss;
E'en in an empty kiss there breathes of bliss.
You'll force me, piece-meal, the torn wreath to


Dear Amaryllis! which I kept for you;

Where ivy tendrils green their foliage wind,

With rose-briar buds, and fragrant parsley twin'd.

Oh! woe is me! whose destiny is run!

Wilt thou not hear me? why am I undone?
Stript of my gaberdine of skins, I'll leap

From yon high cliff down headlong in the deep,

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