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ANGELOT.
Thus yearly circling by past Times return;
And Yearly thus Albino's Fate we mourn:
Albino's Fate was early, short his stay;
How sweet the Rose! How speedy the Decay!
Can we forget how ev'ry Creature moaned,
And sympathizing Rocks in Eccho groan'd,
Presaging future Woe, when, for Our Crimes,
We lost Albino, Pledge of peaceful Times?
The Pride of Britain, and the Darling Joy
Of all the Plains and ev'ry Shepherd Boy.
No joyous Pipe was heard, no Flocks were seen,
Nor Shepherds found upon the grassy Green;
No Cattle graz'd the Field, nor drunk the Flood,
No Birds were heard to warble thro' the Wood.
In yonder gloomy Grove stretch'd out he lay,
His beateous Limbs upon the dampy Clay,
The Roses on his Pallid Cheeks decay'd,
And o'er his Lips a livid Hue display'd:
Bleating around him lie his pensive Sheep,
And mourning Shepherds come in Crouds to weep;
The pious Mother comes, with Grief oppress'd:
Ye, conscious Trees and Fountains, can attest
With what sad Accents and what moving Cries
She fill'd the Grove, and importun'd the Skies,
And ev'ry Star upbraided with his Death,
When in her Widow'd Arms, devoid of Breath,
She clasp'd her Son. Nor did the Nymph for this
Place in her Dearling's Welfare all her Bliss,
And teach him Young the Sylvan Crook to wield,
And rule the Peaceful Empire of the Field.
As Milk-white Swans on Silver Streams do show,
And Silver Streams to grace the Meadows flow;
As Corn the Vales, and Trees the Hills adorn,
So thou to thine an Ornament was born.
Since thou, delicious Youth, didst quit the Plains,
Th' ungrateful Ground we till with fruitless Pains;
In labour'd Furrows sow the Choice of Wheat
And over empty Sheaves in Harvest sweat:
Thus yearly circling by past Times return;
And Yearly thus Albino's Fate we mourn:
Albino's Fate was early, short his stay;
How sweet the Rose! How speedy the Decay!
Can we forget how ev'ry Creature moaned,
And sympathizing Rocks in Eccho groan'd,
Presaging future Woe, when, for Our Crimes,
We lost Albino, Pledge of peaceful Times?
The Pride of Britain, and the Darling Joy
Of all the Plains and ev'ry Shepherd Boy.
No joyous Pipe was heard, no Flocks were seen,
Nor Shepherds found upon the grassy Green;
No Cattle graz'd the Field, nor drunk the Flood,
No Birds were heard to warble thro' the Wood.
In yonder gloomy Grove stretch'd out he lay,
His beateous Limbs upon the dampy Clay,
The Roses on his Pallid Cheeks decay'd,
And o'er his Lips a livid Hue display'd:
Bleating around him lie his pensive Sheep,
And mourning Shepherds come in Crouds to weep;
The pious Mother comes, with Grief oppress'd:
Ye, conscious Trees and Fountains, can attest
With what sad Accents and what moving Cries
She fill'd the Grove, and importun'd the Skies,
And ev'ry Star upbraided with his Death,
When in her Widow'd Arms, devoid of Breath,
She clasp'd her Son. Nor did the Nymph for this
Place in her Dearling's Welfare all her Bliss,
And teach him Young the Sylvan Crook to wield,
And rule the Peaceful Empire of the Field.
As Milk-white Swans on Silver Streams do show,
And Silver Streams to grace the Meadows flow;
As Corn the Vales, and Trees the Hills adorn,
So thou to thine an Ornament was born.
Since thou, delicious Youth, didst quit the Plains,
Th' ungrateful Ground we till with fruitless Pains;
In labour'd Furrows sow the Choice of Wheat
And over empty Sheaves in Harvest sweat:
A thin
