CHARLES HAMILTON. LORD BINNING. -1732. THE SHEPHERD'S COMPLAINT. DID ever swain a nymph adore, Was ever broken heart so true? If Nanny called, did Robin stay, Or linger when she bid me run? She only had the word to say, And all she asked was quickly done: I always thought on her, but she To let her cows my clover taste, Have I not rose by break of day? When did her heifers ever fast, If Robin in his yard had hay? Though to my fields they welcome were, I never welcome was to her. If Nanny ever lost a sheep, I cheerfully did give her two: Did not her lambs in safety sleep Within my folds in frost and snow? Have they not there from cold been free? But Nanny still is cold to me. Whene'er I climbed our orchard trees, The ripest fruit was kept for Nan; O how those hands that drowned her bees Were stung I'll ne'er forget the pain! Sweet were the combs, as sweet could be; But Nanny ne'er looked sweet on me. If Nanny to the well did come, 'Twas I that did her pitchers fill; Full as they were, I brought them home; Her corn I carried to the mill. My back did bear her sacks; but she To Nanny's poultry oats I gave, I'm sure they always had the best; Within this week her pigeons have Eat up a peck of peas at least; Her little pigeons kiss; but she Must Robin always Nanny woo, And Nanny still on Robin frown? If Nanny does not love me soon? WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 1714-1763. SHENSTONE Was in love twice, if so lazy a fellow as he was, can be said to have been in love. His first innamorata was a Miss Graves, sister of one of his college friends, Mr. Richard Graves, author of "THE SPIRITUAL QUIXOTE," and other works. He became acquainted with her in 1735, and had a sort of Platonic feeling towards her for several years. A parting from her on one occasion was the cause of his commencing the "PASTORAL BALLAD." In 1743 he went to Cheltenham, where he met a Miss C (how provoking these blanks are!) and his bosom, as the novelists of that day would have said, was for the second time awakened to the tender passion. He grew melancholy and poetical, as was his wont, and, on parting from his charmer, re-wrote the Ballad, and divided it into four parts, as it now stands. He also wrote a number of songs, in which she figured as Delia. She seems never to have known of his passion, at least from him. 'Marriage was not once the subject of our conversation," he says, in one of his letters, 66 nor even love." But it was just as well so, if we may credit Mr. Graves, who hints, in his "RECOLLECTIONS OF SHENSTONE," that the lady would never have married a man of the poet's means, because she had a sister who had married a baronet! The "PASTORAL BALLAD" was modelled after "THE DESPAIRING SHEPHERD" of Rowe, which Shenstone admired greatly. It was very popular in its time, and is still, with old-fashioned readers. A PASTORAL BALLAD. IN FOUR PARTS. 1743. I. ABSENCE. Ye shepherds, so cheerful and gay, Should Corydon's happen to stray, O call the poor wanderers home! Allow me to muse and to sigh, Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was so watchful as I; I have left my dear Phyllis behind. Now I know what it is to have strove And to leave her we love and admire. And the damps of each evening repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn; I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell. Since Phyllis vouchsafed me a look, I never once dreamed of my vine; May I lose both my pipe and my crook, If I knew of a kid that was mine. I prized every hour that went by, Beyond all that had pleased me before; But now they are past, and I sigh, And I grieve that I prized them no more. But why do I languish in vain? Why wander thus pensively here? O why did I come from the plain, Where I fed on the smiles of my dear? They tell me, my favourite maid, The pride of that valley, is flown; When forced the fair nymph to forego, 'Twas with pain that she saw me depart. She gazed as I slowly withdrew, My path I could hardly discern; So sweetly she bade me adieu, I thought that she bade me return. The pilgrim that journeys all day If he bear but a relic away, Is happy, nor heard to repine. Thus widely removed from the fair, Where my vows, my devotion, I owe; Soft Hope is the relic I bear, And my solace wherever I go. II. HOPE. My banks they are furnished with bees, And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains, all bordered with moss, Where the harebells and violets grow. Not a pine in my grove is there seen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; Not a beech's more beautiful green, But a sweetbriar entwines it around. Not my fields, in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold. One would think she might like to retire |