Daphnis and Menalcas, a Pastoral Eclogue

Shall fam'd Arcadia own the tuneful choir, And fair Sicilia boast the matchless lyre? Shall Gallia's groves resound with heav'nly lays, And Albion's poets claim immortal bays? And this new world ne'er feel the muse's fire; No beauties charm us, or no deeds inspire? O Pennsylvania! shall no son of thine Glow with the raptures of the sacred nine? Ne'er rouze the soul, by strokes of magic kind, Just war to wage, or humanize mankind; With sweetest sounds the virgin's soul control, Or in Elysium wrap the lover's soul?

Fir'd with the thought, I court the Sylvan muse, Her magic influence o'er me to diffuse; Whilst I aspire to wake the rural reed, And sing of swains, whose snowy lambkins feed On SCHUYLKILL'S banks, with shady walnuts crown'd, And bid the vales with music melt around.

Soon as the rays that gild the orient dawn, Ting'd the blue hills, and pearl'd each dewy lawn, Two swains arose and spread their bleating train O'er the fresh verdure of a flow'ry plain; Then sought a hill where purple violets bloom'd, And fragrant scents the downy air perfum'd; Close by whose side there stray'd a murm'ring brook, Where soft reclin'd, each fix'd his oaken crook; When gay Menalcas the long silence broke, And pensive Daphnis, thus returning spoke.