TO THE PEOPLE OF ENGLAND.
A DETESTATION OF CIVIL WAR.
OH! whither do ye rush, and thus
To rouze again the fleeping war?
Has then fo little English blood been spilt
On fea and land with equal guilt?
Not that again we might our arms advance,
To check the infolent pride of France;
Not that once more we might in fetters bring
An humble captive Gallic king?
But, to the wish of the infulting Gaul,
That we by our own hands should fall.
Nor wolves nor lions bear fo fierce a mind;
They hurt not their own favage kind :
Is it blind rage, or zeal, more blind and strong,
Or guilt, yet stronger, drives you on?
Answer: but none can anfwer; mute and pale
They ftand; guilt does o'er words prevail :
'Tis fo: heaven's justice threatens us from high;
And a king's death from earth does cry;
E'er fince the martyr's innocent blood was shed,
Upon our fathers, and on ours, and on our childrens'
Here you the troublers of our peace remove,
Ignoble fear, and more ignoble love:
Here we are taught how first our race began,
And by what steps our fathers climb'd to man;
To man as now he is-with knowledge fill'd,
In arts of peace and war, in manners skill'd,
Equal before to fellow-grazers of the field!
Nature's firft ftate, which, well transpos'd and own'd
(For owners in all ages have been found),
Has made a modern wit fo much renown'd,
When thee we read, we find to be no more
Than what was fung a thousand years before.
Thou only for this noble task wert fit,
To fhame thy age to a juft sense of wit,
By fhewing how the learned Romans writ.
To teach fat heavy clowns to know their trade,
And not turn wits, who were for porters made;
But quit falfe claims to the poetic rage,
For fquibs and crackers, and a Smithfield stage.
Had Providence e'er meant that, in defpight
Of art and nature, such dull clods should write,
Bavius and Mævius had been fav'd by Fate
For Settle and for Shadwell to translate,
As it fo many ages has for thee
Preferv'd the mighty work that now we see.
Mopfus and Menalcas, two very expert fhepherds at a fong, begin one by confent to the memory of Daphnis, who is fuppofed by the best critics to reprefent Julius Cæfar. Mopfus laments his death; Menalcas proclaims his divinity. The whole Eclogue confifting of an Elegy, and an Apotheofis.
fince chance does us together bring,
And you fo well can pipe, and I can fing,
Why fit we not beneath this fecret fhade,
By elms and hazels mingling branches made?
Your age commands refpect; and I obey.
Whether you in this lonely copfe will stay,
Where western winds the bending branches shake,
And in their play the fhades uncertain make:
Or whether to that filent cave you go,
The better choice! fee how the wild vines grow
Luxuriant round, and fee how wide they spread,
And in the cave their purple clusters shed!
Amyntas only dares contend with you.
Why not as well contend with Phoebus too?
Begin, begin; whether the mournful flame
Of dying Phillis, whether Alcon's fame,
Or Codrus' brawls, thy willing Mufe provoke ;
Begin; young Tityrus will tend the flock.
Yes, I'll begin, and the fad song repeat,
That on the beech's bark I lately writ,
And fet to sweetest notes; yes, I'll begin,
And after that, bid you, Amyntas, fing.
As much as the most humble fhrub that grows,
Yields to the beauteous blushes of the rofe,
Or bending ofiers to the olive tree;
So much, I judge, Amyntas yields to thee.
Shepherd, to this discourse here put an end,
This is the cave; fit, and my verfe attend.
When the fad fate of Daphnis reach'd their ears,
The pitying nymphs diffolv'd in pious tears.
Witness, ye hazels, for ye heard their cries;
Witnefs, ye floods, fwoln with their weeping eyes.
The mournful mother (on his body caft)
The fad remains of her cold son embrac'd,
And of th' unequal tyranny they us'd,
The cruel gods and cruel stars accus'd.
Then did no fwain mind how his flock did thrive, Nor thirsty herds to the cold river drive;
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