November. a Pastoral Elegy

What means, honest shepherd, this cloud on thy brow? Say, where is thy mirth and thy melody now? Thy pipe thrown aside, and thy looks full of thought! As silent and sad as a bird newly caught. Has any misfortune befallen thy flocks? Any lambs been betray'd by the craft of the fox? Or murrain, more fatal, just seiz'd on thy herd? Or has thy dear Phillis let slip a cross word?

The season indeed may to musing incline, Now that grey-bearded Winter makes Autumn resign; The hills all around us their russet put on, And the skies seem in mourning for loss of the sun: The winds make the tree, where you sit, shake its head; Yet tho' with dry leaves mother Earth's lap is spread, Her bosom to cheer us is verdant with wheat, And the woods can supply us both pastime and meat.

O, no, says the shepherd, I mourn none of these, Content with such changes as heaven shall please! Tho' now we have got the wrong side of the year, 'Twill turn up again, and fresh beauties appear: But the loss that I grieve for, no time can restore— Our master, who lov'd us so well, is no more; That oak, which we hop'd would long shelter us all, Is fallen; then well may we shake at its fall.

Where find we a Pastor so kind and so good, So careful to feed us with wholesomest food? To watch for our safety, and drive far away The sly prowling fox, always lurking for prey? O, may his remembrance for ever remain, To shame those hard shepherds who, mindful of gain, Only look at their sheep with an eye to their fleece, And watch them no more than the fox watch'd the geese!

Whom now shall I chuse for the judge of my song? Or must my poor pipe on the willow be hung? No more to commend that good-nature and sense, Which always could please, but ne'er once give offence. What honour directed, he firmly pursued, Yet would not his judgment on others obtrude: Still ready to help with his service and vote; But ne'er to thrust oar in another man's boat.

No more, honest shepherd, these sorrows resound; The virtues thou praisest, so hard to be found, Are yet not all fled—for the swain who succeeds To his fields and his herds, is true heir to his deeds: His pattern he'll follow, his gentleness use, Take care of the shepherds, and cherish the muse; Then cease for the dead thy impertinent care; Rejoice—he revives in his brother and heir.