JOHN BYROM.

1691-1763.

THE Phoebe of Byrom's pastoral was Miss Joanna Bentley, daughter of Dr. Richard Bentley, the celebrated master of Trinity College, of which Byrom was a student. He is said to have written the poem, not so much for love of the lady, as from a desire to attract the notice of her father. It was first published in "THE SPECTATOR," for October 6th, 1714. Miss Bentley afterwards married Dr. Dennison Cumberland, Bishop of Clonfert, in Ireland: Cumberland, the dramatist, was her son. Byrom married his cousin, Elizabeth, against the wishes of her father, a rich mercer of Manchester, who refused to do anything for the young couple. They were reduced to sad straits, and Byrom was forced for a time to teach short-hand writing for a living.

A PASTORAL.

My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent,
When Phoebe went with me wherever I went,
Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast;
Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest!
But now she is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvellous change on a sudden I find!
When things were as fine as could possibly be,
I thought 'twas the Spring; but, alas! it was she.

With such a companion, to tend a few sheep,
To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep,
I was so good-humoured, so cheerful and gay,
My heart was as light as a feather all day:

But now I so cross, and so peevish am grown,

So strangely uneasy, as never was known.

My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned,
And my heart-I am sure it weighs more than a pound!

The fountain that wont to run sweetly along,
And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among;
Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there,
'Twas pleasure to look at, 't was music to hear:
But now she is absent, I walk by its side,

And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide;
Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain?

Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.

My lambkins around me would oftentimes play,
And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they;

How pleasant their sporting, how happy the time,

When Spring, Love, and Beauty, were all in their prime! But now, in their frolics, when by me they pass,

I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass;

Be still then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad,
To see you so merry while I am so sad.

My dog I was ever well pleased to see
Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me;
And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said,
Come hither, poor fellow; and patted his head.
But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look
Cry Sirrah! and give him a blow with my crook ;
And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray
Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away?

When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen!
How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green!
What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade,
The cornfields and hedges, and everything made!
But now she has left me, though all are still there,
They none of them now so delightful appear:

"T was naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes, Made so many beautiful prospects arise.

Sweet music went with us both all the wood through,
The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too;
Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat,
And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet.
But now she is absent, though still they sing on,
The woods are but lonely, the melody 's gone:
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found,
Gave everything else its agreeable sound.

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?
Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you dressed,
And made yourselves fine for-a place in her breast.
You put on your colours to pleasure her eye,
To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die.

How slowly Time creeps, till my Phoebe return!
While amidst the soft Zephyr's cool breezes, I burn;
Methinks if I knew whereabouts he would tread,

I could breathe on his wings, and 't would melt down the lead.
Fly swiftly, ye minutes, bring hither my dear,

And rest so much longer for 't when she is here.

Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay,

Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say.

Will no pitying power, that hears me complain,

Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain?

To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove;
But what swain is so silly to live without love?

No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return,
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair;
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair!

NICHOLAS ROWE.

1673-1718.

ROWE and Addison were both suitors for the hand of the countess-dowager of Warwick, and it was on the occasion of her marriage with the latter (Aug. 2, 1716,) that "COLIN'S COMPLAINT" was written. Addison became acquainted with the noble dame by being tutor to her son. "He formed," said Tonson, "the design of getting that lady from the time when he was first taken into the family." His courtship was long and anxious; but as his reputation and influence increased, his courage rose, and she was finally persuaded to marry him, "on terms very much like those on which a Turkish princess is espoused: 'Daughter, I give thee this man for thy slave.'" She remembered her rank on all occasions, and treated poor Addison without ceremony, driving him, I have somewhere read, to the bottle for consolation. He died in 1719, a year after his discomfited rival, Rowe, who took the marriage very much to heart-on paper. Rowe was twice married.

COLIN'S COMPLAINT.

Despairing beside a clear stream,
A shepherd forsaken was laid;
And while a false nymph was his theme,
A willow supported his head.

The wind that blew over the plain,

To his sighs with a sigh did reply;
And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.

"Alas, silly swain that I was !”

Thus sadly complaining, he cried,

"When first I beheld that fair face,

'T were better by far I had died.

She talked, and I blessed the dear tongue;

When she smiled, 't was a pleasure too great:

I listened, and cried, when she sung,

Was nightingale ever so sweet?

"How foolish was I to believe

She could doat on so lowly a clown; Or that her fond heart would not grieve, To forsake the fine folk of the town!

To think that a beauty so gay,

So kind and so constant would prove;
Or go clad like our maidens in gray,
Or live in a cottage on love!

"What though I have skill to complain,

Though the Muses my temples have crowned; What though, when they hear my soft strain, The virgins sit weeping around?

Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain,

Thy pipe and thy laurel resign;

Thy false one inclines to a swain

Whose music is sweeter than thine!

"And you, my companions so dear, Who sorrow to see me betrayed,

Whatever I suffer, forbear,

Forbear to accuse the false maid. Though through the wide world I should range, "Tis in vain from my fortune to fly;

"T was hers to be false, and to change, 'Tis mine to be constant and die.

"If while my hard fate I sustain,

In her breast any pity is found,

Let her come with the nymphs of the plain,
And see me laid low in the ground.