Autumn - The Third Pastoral, or Hylas and Ægon
Beneath
the
shade
a
spreading
Beech
displays,
Hylas
and
Aegon
sung
their
rural
lays,
This
mourn'd
a
faithless,
that
an
absent
Love,
And
Delia's
name
and
Doris'
fill'd
the
Grove.
Ye
Mantuan
nymphs,
your
sacred
succour
bring;
Hylas
and
Ægon's
rural
lays
I
sing.
Thou,
whom
the
Nine
with
Plautus'
wit
inspire,
The
art
of
Terence,
and
Menander's
fire;
Whose
sense
instructs
us,
and
whose
humour
charms,
Whose
judgement
sways
us,
and
whose
spirit
warms!
Oh,
skill'd
in
Nature!
see
the
hearts
of
Swains,
Their
artless
passions,
and
their
tender
pains.
Now
setting
Phœbus
shone
serenely
bright,
And
fleecy
clouds
were
streak'd
with
purple
light;
When
tuneful
Hylas
with
melodious
moan,
Taught
rocks
to
weep,
and
made
the
mountains
groan.
Go,
gentle
gales,
and
bear
my
sighs
away!
To
Delia's
ear,
the
tender
notes
convey.
As
some
sad
Turtle
his
lost
love
deplores,
And
with
deep
murmurs
fills
the
sounding
shores;
Thus,
far
from
Delia,
to
the
winds
I
mourn,
Alike
unheard,
unpity'd,
and
forlorn.
Go,
gentle
gales,
and
bear
my
sighs
along!
For
her,
the
feather'd
quires
neglect
their
song;
For
her,
the
limes
their
pleasing
shades
deny;
For
her,
the
lilies
hang
their
heads
and
die.
Ye
flow'rs
that
droop,
forsaken
by
the
spring,
Ye
birds
that,
left
by
summer,
cease
to
sing,
Ye
trees
that
fade
when
autumn-heats
remove,
Say,
is
not
absence
death
to
those
who
love?
Go,
gentle
gales,
and
bear
my
sighs
away!
Curs'd
be
the
fields
that
cause
my
Delia's
stay;
Fade
ev'ry
blossom,
wither
ev'ry
tree,
Die
ev'ry
flow'r,
and
perish
all,
but
she.
What
have
I
said?
where'er
my
Delia
flies,
Let
spring
attend,
and
sudden
flow'rs
arise;
Let
op'ning
roses
knotted
oaks
adorn,
And
liquid
amber
drop
from
ev'ry
thorn.
Go,
gentle
gales,
and
bear
my
sighs
along!
The
birds
shall
cease
to
tune
their
ev'ning
song,
The
winds
to
breathe,
the
waving
woods
to
move,
And
streams
to
murmur,
e'er
I
cease
to
love.
Not
bubbling
fountains
to
the
thirsty
swain,
Not
balmy
sleep
to
lab'rers
faint
with
pain,
Not
show'rs
to
larks,
nor
sun-shine
to
the
bee,
Are
half
so
charming
as
thy
sight
to
me.
Go,
gentle
gales,
and
bear
my
sighs
away!
Come,
Delia,
come;
ah,
why
this
long
delay?
Thro'
rocks
and
caves
the
name
of
Delia
sounds,
Delia,
each
cave
and
echoing
rock
rebounds.
Ye
pow'rs,
what
pleasing
frenzy
sooths
my
mind!
Do
lovers
dream,
or
is
my
Delia
kind?
She
comes,
my
Delia
comes!
--
Now
cease
my
lay,
And
cease,
ye
gales,
to
bear
my
sighs
away!
Next
Ægon
sung,
while
Windsor
groves
admir'd;
Rehearse,
ye
Muses,
what
yourselves
inspir'd.
Resound,
ye
hills,
resound
my
mournful
strain!
Of
perjur'd
Doris,
dying
I
complain:
Here
where
the
mountains
less'ning
as
they
rise
Lose
the
low
vales,
and
steal
into
the
skies:
While
lab'ring
oxen,
spent
with
toil
and
heat,
In
their
loose
traces
from
the
field
retreat:
While
curling
smokes
from
village-tops
are
seen,
And
the
fleet
shades
glide
o'er
the
dusky
green.
Resound,
ye
hills,
resound
my
mournful
lay!
Beneath
yon'
poplar
oft
we
past
the
day:
Oft'
on
the
rind
I
carv'd
her
am'rous
vows,
While
she
with
garlands
hung
the
bending
boughs:
The
garlands
fade,
the
vows
are
worn
away;
So
dies
her
love,
and
so
my
hopes
decay.
Resound
ye
hills,
resound
my
mournful
strain!
Now
bright
Arcturus
glads
the
teeming
grain,
Now
golden
fruits
on
loaded
branches
shine,
And
grateful
clusters
swell
with
floods
of
wine;
Now
blushing
berries
paint
the
yellow
grove;
Just
Gods!
shall
all
things
yield
returns
but
love?
Resound,
ye
hills,
resound
my
mournful
lay!
The
shepherds
cry,
"Thy
flocks
are
left
a
prey"=-
Ah!
what
avails
it
me,
the
flocks
to
keep,
Who
lost
my
heart,
while
I
preserv'd
my
sheep.
Pan
came,
and
ask'd,
what
magic
caus'd
my
smart,
Or
what
ill
eyes
malignant
glances
dart?
What
eyes
but
hers,
alas,
have
pow'r
to
move!
And
is
here
magic
but
what
dwells
in
love?
Resound,
ye
hills,
resound
my
mournful
strains!
I'll
fly
from
shepherds,
flocks,
and
flow'ry
plains.--
From
shepherds,
flocks,
and
plains,
I
may
remove,
Forsake
mankind,
and
all
the
world
--
but
love!
I
know
thee,
Love!
on
foreign
Mountains
bred,
Wolves
gave
thee
suck,
and
savage
Tigers
fed.
Thou
wert
from
Ætna's
burning
entrails
torn,
Got
by
fierce
whirlwinds,
and
in
thunder
born!
Resound,
ye
hills,
resound
my
mournful
lay!
Farewell,
ye
woods!
adieu
the
light
of
day!
One
leap
from
yonder
cliff
shall
end
my
pains,
No
more,
ye
hills,
no
more
resound
my
strains!
Thus
sung
the
shepherds
till
th'
approach
of
night,
The
skies
yet
blushing
with
departing
light,
When
falling
dews
with
spangles
deck'd
the
glade,
And
the
low
sun
had
lengthen'd
ev'ry
shade.
Alexander Pope
Alexander Pope, (born May 21, 1688, London, England—died May 30, 1744, Twickenham, near London), poet and satirist of the English Augustan period, best known for his poems An Essay on Criticism (1711), The Rape of the Lock (1712–14), The Dunciad (1728), and An Essay on Man (1733–34). He is one of the most epigrammatic of all English authors. Pope’s command of diction is no less happily adapted to his theme and to the type of poem, and the range of his imagery is remarkably wide. He has been thought defective in imaginative power, but this opinion cannot be sustained in view of the invention and organizing ability shown notably in The Rape of the Lock and The Dunciad. He was the first English poet to enjoy contemporary fame in France and Italy and throughout the European continent and to see translations of his poems into modern as well as ancient languages.