A Pastoral ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF Mr. THOMAS CREECH.
DAPHNIS: OR, A Pastoral ELEGY Upon the Unfortunate and much-lamented DEATH OF Mr. THOMAS CREECH.
—Negat quis Carmina Gallo?
Hunc etiam Lauri, hunc etiam flevere Myricae.
Virgil.
LONDN, Printed for John Deeve at Bernard's Inn-Gate in Holborn, 1700
DAPHNIS, &c.
THYRSIS. ALEXIS.
THE Rosie Morning with prevailing Light
Had now dispell'd the humid Shades of Night,
And smiling
Phaebus spread his Thirsty Beams
To drink the Dew, and tast the Silver Streams:
When on a rising Mountain's fragrant Side
By
Flora deckt in all her gawdy Pride;
The mourning Shepherd, young
Alexis lay,
Sickning at Light, and weary of the Day:
On conscious Heav'n he fix'd his weeping Eyes,
10 As if he sought his
Daphnis in the Skies.
Daphnis, who from the Earth was lately fled;
Daphnis, (he living) lov'd, and mourn'd for
Daphnis dead.
When Generous Fortune kindly brought that way
Sad
Thyrsis to assist the pensive Boy,
To be the kind Companion of his Woe;
That both their Tears might in one Current flow:
Thus then the Youth began a doleful Strain,
And thus bespoke the Sympathizing Swain.
Alexis.
[Page 2]
Ah
Thyrsis! hast thou heard the dismal Tale?
20 How
Daphnis dy'd in yonder Gloomy Vale!
Say, couldst thou think that he, whose Verse could move
A Rock to Pity, or a Stone to Love.
Who could, like
Ovid, tendrest Thoughts instill
Should fall a Victim to a Woman's Will?
Thyrsis.
Yes, Shepherd, yes; the Story is too true!
Look, how the Groves have chang'd their verdant hiew!
The wither'd Leaves lie scatter'd all around,
And blasted Flowers disgrace the sacred Ground.
Yes, he is dead! the poor unhappy Swain,
30 Lov'd beauteous
LALAGE, but lov'd in vain;
Fantastick, proud, and conscious of her Charms,
She scorn'd his Love, and fled his wishing Arms.
Nought cou'd prevail, tho' all Loves Arts he try'd:
She sacrific'd the Shepherd to her Pride.
Ungentle Nymph, to thee we owe his Death,
'Twas
LALAGE that rob'd poor
Daphnis of his Breath.
Alex.
Ah cruel Nymph! we've lost the learned'st Swain
That ever sung on our
Arcadia's Plain:
What sprightly Thoughts, what Joy did he inspire!
40 When with such Art he touch'd the
Roman Lyre?
What tender Pity did our Souls invade,
When he bewail'd the Royal
Grecian Maid?
[Page 3] How well his Muse the fatal Story told,
When she the poor
Lucretia's Fate condol'd?
When
Daphnis Sung, how did our Groves rejoyce,
And Grottos Eccho to his charming Voice?
How slow did silent
Ousa roul along,
When
Daphnis taught us great
Lucretia's Song?
Where wandring Atoms in Confusion hurl'd,
50 Agreed by Chance, and so compos'd a World.
Whilst Nervous Numbers with harmonious Feet,
In such a soft, and tuneful Cadence meet;
As (to his lasting Honour) fully prove
Chance could not in such Beauteous Order move.
Then, Cruel Nymph, how could thy Pride refuse
So soft a Lover and so sweet a Muse?
Hadst thou but yeilded to our
Daphnis Love,
On every Green, in every blooming Grove,
The Nymphs and Swains had blest thy happy Name,
60 And
LALAGE, and
Daphnis fill'd the Mouth of Fame.
But now both Nymphs, and Swains unite their Breath,
To Curse thy Scorn, and mourn the Shepherds Death:
Whose Shade now wandring in the pensive Grove,
Still, still complains of
LALAGE, and Love.
Daphnis farewel, farewel unhappy Swain!
May'st thou in
Lethe's Lake forget thy Pain,
[Page 4] And in oblivion sleep, till thou no more
Remember what thou didst, or what thou wert before.
Thyrsis.
See yonder Sheep, how ragged now and bare,
70 A happy Flock, whilst they were
Daphnis Care,
But now they mope, and straggling o're the Plain
Lament all Day, and mourn their absent Swain:
No more they Joy to Crop the tender Buds,
Nor seek at Noon cool Springs, and shady Woods.
In neither Sun, nor Shade, they now delight,
Nor dread the Foxes, or the Wolves by Night.
here pin'd to Death, a harmless Lambkin lies,
And there for Grief his bleating Mother dyes.
As if she did with her departing Breath
80 Invoke just Heaven t'avange her Masters Death.
Alex.
And
Pan will sure revenge the Shepherd's Fate
Altho' perhaps his vengeance comes but late.
Last Night returning home, in yonder Grove,
Where we were us'd to sing, and talk of Love,
I heard great
Pan, and all the Sylvan Train
Of
Daphnis Love, and
Daphnis death complain.
The weeping Heav'ns a Shower of Tears distill'd,
And all the Woods were with loud Sorrow fill'd.
Whilst mournful Ecchoes all their Sighs rebound,
90 Wishing they had been something more than Sound.
[Page 5]
Pan most of all the Shepherd's Death deplor'd,
He
Daphnis lov'd, and
Daphnis him ador'd.
Oh (my dear Boy) he cry'd, why wouldst thou dare
To view a Face so tempting, and so Fair?
Why, why didst thou indulge the secret Fire?
Ah! why wouldst thou admit the fond desire,
And hope th' imperious
LALAGE to move?
Why didst thou dye? (alas!) why didst thou Love?
But 'tis in vain to ask; 'twas so decreed,
100 So I coy
Syrnix chas'd, and caught a trembling Reed.
Fair Fatal Sex! who can our Souls surprize
With tender Looks, and soft bewitching Eyes,
Were you but half as pitiful and kind,
The God of Love had not been counted blind.
On you we Gaze, and feel a pleasing Pain
Steal to our Hearts, and glide thro' every Vein.
Till drunk with Love our weakness we betray;
110 And dye, if you refuse to yield the Joy!
More had he spoke; but Words began to fail,
And breathless Ecchoes murmur'd in the Vale;
Convulsive Sorrow swell'd his throbbing Breast,
Adieu! adieu! he cry'd, and sigh'd the rest.
Thyr.
But say what chance, what luckless Fortune drew
The scornful Virgin to the Shepherd's View?
[Page 6] Where did his fatal Passion first begin?
Ah! Where was she by wretched
Daphnis seen.
Alexis.
Beneath a Shade to shun the Heat of Day,
On
Ousa's flow'ry Banks our
Daphnis lay;
Whilst his glad Flocks around their Master feed,
120 Charm'd with the Musick of his Voice, and Reed:
Of
Chaos first he sung, and boundless Space,
Before the Birth of Matter, Time, or Place;
Before Old Night had felt the piercing Ray
Of Light, and yielded to invading Day.
Then, how the wondrous Universe began,
What Order thro' the new-made Structure ran;
The Birth of Nature, and the Birth of Man.
Then chang'd his Subject, and in softer Strains
Discover'd
Grecian Loves, to
Brittish Swains.
Whilst
LALAGE from an adjacent Glade,
130 (Where trembling Boughs compos'd a moving Shade)
With Pleasure listen'd to his warbling Airs,
And drunk the pleasing Tales with greedy Ears:
Then o're the Lawns she trips with nimble Feet
To know who 'twas sung so divinely Sweet;
And as she past along, th' impatient Maid
With curious Eyes each secret Place survey'd,
Still following Eccho as a faithful Guide,
Till she at distance had the Shepherd spy'd.
Thyrsis.
[Page 7]
140 Ah happy Swain!
Hadst thou but fled from that unhappy Place,
And never seen her fair enchanting Face,
Thou yet hadst been the Lord of all our Plains,
And we yet heard thy soft harmonious Strains.
Alexis.
But
Daphnis to his Fate with Pleasure run,
He saw the Nymph, he lov'd, and was undone.
With haughty Looks, and a disdainful Mien
Apace she walk'd, and crost the shaded Green;
The Shepherd view'd her as she past along,
150 Dropt down his Reed, and strait forgot his Song,
With wishing Eyes he gaz'd upon her Charms,
And wou'd have dy'd t'have dy'd within her Arms;
Deep draughts of Love he drunk, and strong desire,
His Breast, like
Etna, glow'd with inward Fire,
Which when the Nymph perceiv'd, more proud and coy
She look'd, and smil'd with a malicious Joy.
Nor could he since the cruel Tyrant move
(Obdurate Maid) to Pity or to Love.
The sad, the direful Passion still increas'd,
160 Ten Thousand raging Thoughts distract his Breast.
His Flock and darling Muse no longer were
His dear delight, his Pleasure, and his Care;
The Nymph, the Nymph, he thinks of nought but her.
[Page 8] But hapless Youth!—
The more he lov'd, the more she scorn'd his Flame,
And seem'd to hate both Love and
Daphnis Name.
Then from our Groves to yonder Wood he flies,
(Strange Power of Love!) and there despairing dies.
Thyrsis.
The last time I the wretched Swain beheld,
170 Was on a Sunny Bank in
Aegon's Field;
All Fire himself, he minded not to shun
The Heat of Day, or fly the scorching Sun;
Wildly he star'd, his Face look'd pale, and wan,
He sigh'd, and languish'd like a dying Man.
When to him thus I spoke—
Unhappy Youth!—and can there be no Cure,
What Tortures dost thou feel, what Pains endure?
Whilst by a cruel unrelenting Maid,
Thou art to Misery, and Death betray'd.
Ah, canst thou not forget her fatal Charms,
180 And take some kinder Beauty to thy Arms?
Return, return to our abandon'd Grove;
And there thou mayst be happy in thy Love.
For thee in amorous Fires
Lycoris burns,
For thee the lovely
Galetea mourns.
Wer't thou from this inglorious Bondage free,
A Thousand Blessings wait to fall on thee.
The Jolly Troops that us'd to hear thy Lays,
And crown thy Brows with Wreaths of verdant Bays:
[Page 9] In Sighs and Tears of thy hard Fate complain,
190 Begging kind Heav'n to break the subtle Chain
Which holds thy Heart; and thy sweet Muse restore;
That thou mayst charm them, as thou didst before.
Thy scatter'd Flooks too o're the Forests roam,
Wanting their Shepherd to compell them home.
Rise then dear
Daphnis, give this Fondness o're,
And think of cruel
LALAGE no more.
Thus I—and thus reply'd the sighing Swain,
Ah
Thyrsis, if thou wouldst remove my Pain,
Give me my Love, so may I sooth my Grief,
200 Forget my Cares, and grow more fond of Life:
For tho' so proud, disdainful, and unkind,
Without her I can hope no Peace to find;
My wandring Thoughts her Form do's still pursue,
And still my Soul ha's
LALAGE in view.
Ah savage Fair, wouldst thou this bounty give,
(For since thou wilt not Love, I cannot Live)
Wouldst thou but deign to close my trembling Eyes,
Or drop a Tear or two, as
Daphnis dyes:
With Joy, I'd meet the cold Embrace of Death,
210 And bless my Charmer with my latest Breath.
Didst thou but Rage with such a fierce desire,
I'd rush thro' foaming Seas, and Storms of Fire,
[Page 10] Attempt the greatest Dangers, and not grieve
To part with Life, so
LALAGE might Live.
But thou malicious fair one, with Disdain!
Laughs at my Grief, and smiling mock'st my Pain.
Be gone ye Quacks, your Arts no longer boast,
In spight of all your Med'cines I am lost;
Be gone ye Cheats, who with vain Charms pretend
220 To make departed Shades again ascend:
Be gone ye Zealots, who at Altars bow;
The Gods are deaf, and cannot hear you now.
I rave, I rage, I burn, oh! let me fly
To some dark desart Place, and there I'll dye.
Thus spoke the Swain, and acted as he said,
Raving to yonder gloomy Wood he fled.
Where, for a while, with piercing Sighs and Groans
He fills the Shades, and his dire Fate bemoans;
Repeating still the cruel Charmer's Name,
230 And on each Tree records his hapless Flame.
Till quite o'erwhelm'd with Woe and drown'd in Grief,
He thus gave up the sad remains of Life.
Farewel ye Swains! to Death's dark Courts I go
To mourn amongst the weeping Shades below.
Farewel ye Streams, and conscious Groves, he cry'd:
So did the dreadful work of Fate, and dy'd.
Alex.
[Page 11]
Unhappy Youth! What could the Fates design
To bless the World with such a Muse as thine,
Yet suffer Death to ravish her away,
240 E're she could half her smiling Charms display?
What Star, what baleful Planet rul'd thy Birth?
Shedding malignant Rays upon the Earth,
That thou shouldst dye amidst thy Vernal Bloom,
Before thy Muse had brought her Harvest home!
But 'twas a dismal, sad, untimely Death
That robb'd so soon the Shepherd of his Breath.
Thus blooming Trees are nipt with killing Frost,
Thus budding Flowers harsh Mildews often blast.
Hadst thou surviv'd, what Wonders had we seen!
250 What listning Crowds had throng'd each Grove and Green.
Upon thy Voice the Nymphs and Swains had hung,
As when before great
Tytyrus sweetly sung.
Thyrsis.
But
Tityrus is gone, and
Daphnis fled,
And all our Hopes are with the Shepherds, dead.
Farewel dear Youth, so fast my Tears do flow,
That Words are wanting to express my Woe.
As
Hebrus stopt for Grief his golden Side,
When on it's Banks the tuneful
Orpheus dy'd;
So do our Groves, and Rivers seem to mourn,
260 In silent Sorrow, for their Swains return.
But thou canst ne're return—
For thou hast crost the irreameable Lake,
And
Charon's Boat comes always empty back.
Here did the Swains their mournful Theme give o're,
Sighs stopt their Words, and they could speak no more.
FINIS.
Lately Printed,
KIng
Henry IV. with the Humours of Sir
John Falstaff. A Tragi-Comedy, as it is Acted at the Theatre in
Little Lincolns-Inn-Fields. Revived, with Alterations. Printed for
John Deeve at
Bernard's Inn-Gate in
Holborn:
Where you may be furnish'd with most Plays.