CORYDON

A Pastoral.

TO THE MEMORY OF WM. SHENSTONE, ESQ.

BY J. CUNNINGHAM.

COME, shepherds! we'll follow the hearse,
And see our loved Corydon laid;
Though sorrow may blemish the verse,
Yet let the sad tribute be paid.
They call'd him the pride of the plain !
In sooth he was gentle and kind ;
He mark'd in his elegant strain

The graces that glow'd in his mind.

On purpose he planted yon trees,
That birds in the covert might dwell;
He cultured his thyme for the bees,
But never would rifle their cell.
Ye lambkins! that play'd at his feet,
Go bleat-and your master bemoan:
His music was artless and sweet,
His manners as mild as your own.

No verdure shall cover the vale,

No bloom on the blossoms appear;
The sweets of the forest shall fail,
And winter discolour the year.
No birds in our hedges shall sing,
(Our hedges, so vocal before)
Since he that should welcome the spring
Can greet the gay season no more.

His Phyllis was fond of his praise,
And poets came round in a throng;
They listen'd, and envied his lays,

But which of them equal'd his song?
Ye shepherds! henceforward be mute,
For lost is the pastoral strain;
So give me my Corydon's flute,

And thus-let me break it in twain.

FROM

TICKELL'S WREATH OF FASHION.

-Let vanquish'd Nature mourn

Her lost simplicity o'er Shenstone's urn;
With sympathetic sorrows on his tomb
Let the pale primrose shed its wild perfume,
The cowslip droop its head; and all around
The withering violet strew the hallow'd ground:
For mute the swain, and cold the hand that wove
Their simple sweets to wreaths of artless love.
Simplicity with Shenstone died!

FROM

PRATT'S TEARS OF GENIUS.

FULL gentle and sweet was the note
That flow'd from his delicate heart;
Simplicity smiled as he wrote,

And Nature was polish'd by Art.

Now unseen let the' eglantine blow,
Unheeded the hyacinth lie;
Unheard let the rivulets flow,

Let the primroses flourish and die

For the swain who should crop them is gone:
He sung, and all Nature admired;
He spoke and all hearts were his own;
He fell and all pity expired.

M. S. GULIELMI SHENSTONE!
AH! Gulielme,
Hominum diguissime,
Amicorum integerrime,
Indole optimâ,
Moribus gratissimis,
Eruditione diffusâ,

Ac corde quam maxime benigno
Prædite,

Morte, eheu! præmatura obrepte,
Ah! Gulielme,
Vale!

"Quanto minus est,

Cum aliis versari,

Quam tui meminisse !"

FROM

T. H.

Shalt

MR. MASON'S ENGLISH GARDEN.

NOR, Shenstone, thou

pass without thy meed, thou son of peace! Who knew'st, perchance, to harmonize thy shades, Still softer than thy song; yet was that song Nor rude, nor inharmonious, when attuned To pastoral plaint, or tale of slighted love.

TO THE READER.

To this edition is subjoined (for the sake of those readers to whom it may not prove unwelcome) an explanation, or rather, in most places, a liberal imitation, of all the Latin inscriptions and quotations throughout this work, by Mr. Hull. That gentleman's well-known friendship for Mr. Shenstone, and willingness to oblige, being his sole inducements to this (as he chooses to have it called) trifling addition; the editor thinks it is not more than a just return of gratitude to let his purchasers know to whom they are beholden for it. Be it remembered, however, that it was executed in a country retirement, where our eminent translators of the classics were not at hand to be consulted.