In all diseases of the bleating flock.
Mix'd with the rustic throng, see ruddy maids,
Some taught with dext'rous hand to twirl the wheel,
Or stroak the swelling udder; some expert
To raise from leaven'd wheat the kneaded loaf;
To mash the malted barley, and extract
Its flavour'd strength; or, with a housewife's care,
To keep the decent habitation neat.
But now let loose to revelry and sport,
In clamorous mirth, indelicate and rude,
The boisterous swains, and hoyden nymphs provoke
Outrageous merriment. — Yet not alike
Is every swain, nor every sylvan maid;
As Verulam the pleasing tale records.
When Patty, lovely Patty, grac'd the crowd,
Pride of the neighbouring plains. Who hath not heard
Of Patty, the fair milk-maid? Beautiful
As an Arcadian nymph; upon her brow
Sat virgin modesly, while in her eyes
Young sensibility began to play
With innocence. Her waving locks fell down
On either side her face in careless curls,
Shading the tender blushes in her cheek.
Her breath was sweeter than the morning gale,
Stol'n from the rose or violet's dewy leaves.
Her ivory teeth appear'd in even rows,
Through lips of living coral. When she spoke,
Her feature wore intelligence; her words
Were soft, with such a smile accompany'd,
As lighted in her face resistless charms.
Her polish'd neck rose rounding from her breast
With pleasing elegance: that lovely breast!
Ah! Fancy, dwell not there, lest gay desire,
Who, smiling, hovers o'er th' enchanting place,
Tempt thy wild thoughts to dangerous ecstacy.
Her shape was moulded by the hand of ease,
Exact proportion harmoniz'd her frame;
While grace, following her steps, with secret art
Stole into all her motions. Thus she walk'd
In sweet simplicity; a snow-white pail
Hung on her arm, the symbol of her skill
In that fair province of the rural state,
The dairy; source of more delicious bowls
Than Bacchus from his choicest vintage boasts.
How great the power of beauty! The rude swains
Grew civil at her sight; and gaping crowds,
Wrapt in astonishment, with transport gaze,
Whisp'ring her praises in each other's ear.
As when a gentle breeze, borne through the grove,
With quick vibration shakes the trembling leaves,
And hushing murmurs run from tree to tree;
So ran a spreading whisper through the crowd.
Young Thyrsis hearing, turn'd aside his head,
And soon the pleasing wonder caught his eye.
Full in the prime of youth, the joyful heir
Of num'rous acres, a large freehold farm,
Thyrfis as yet from beauty felt no pain,
Had seen no virgin he could wish to make
His weeded partner. Now his heating heart
Feels new emotion; now his fixed eye,
With fervent rapture dwelling on her charms,
Drinks in delicious draughts of new-born love.
No rest the night, no peace the following day
Brought to his struggling heart: her beauteous form,
Her fair perfections playing on his mind,
With pleasing anguish torture him. In vain
He strives to tear her image from his breast;
Each little grace, each dear bewitching look,
Returns triumphant, breaking his resolves,
And binding all his soul a slave to love.
Ah! little did he know, alas! the while
Poor Patty's tender heart, in mutual pain,
Long, long for him had heav'd the secret sigh.
For him she dress'd, for him the pleasing arts
She study'd, and for him she wish'd to live.
But her low fortunes, nursing sad dispair,
Check'd the young hope; nor durst her modest eyes
Indulge the smallest glances of her flame,
Lest curious malice, like a watchful spy,
Should catch the secret, and with taunts reveal.
Judge then the sweet surprise, when she at length
Beheld him, all irresolute, approach;
And gently taking her fair trembling hand,
Breathe these soft words into her list'ning ear.
" O Patty! dearest maid, whose beauteous form
" Dwells in my breast, and charms my soul to love,
" Accept my vows; accept a faithful heart,
" Which from this hour devotes itself to thee:
" Wealth has no relish, life can give no joy,
" If you forbid my hopes to call you mine. "
Ah! who the sudden tumult can describe
Of struggling passions rising in her breast?
Hope, fear, confusion, modesty, and love,
Oppress her lab'ring soul: — She strove to speak,
But the saint accents died upon her tongue:
Her fears prevented utterance. — At length,
" Can Thyrfis mock my poverty? Can he
" Be so unkind? O no! yet I, alas,
" Too humble e'en to hope. " No more the said:
But gently, as if half unwilling, stole
Her hand from his; and, with sweet modesty,
Casting a look of diffidence and fear,
To hide her blushes, silently withdrew.
But Thyrfis read, with rapture, in her eyes
The language of her soul. He follow'd, woo'd,
And won her for his wife. His lowing herds
Soon call her mistress; soon their milky streams
Coagulated, rise in circling piles
Of harden'd curd; and all the dairies round,
To her sweet butter yield superior praise.
But turn, my Muse, nor let th' alluring form
Of beauty lead too far thy devious steps.
See where the farmer, with a master's eye,
Surveys his little kingdom, and exults
In sov'reign independence. At a word,
His feathery subjects in obedience flock
Around his feeding hand, who in return
Yield a delicious tribute to his board,
And o'er his couch their downy plumage spread.
The peacock here expands his eyeful plumes,
A glitt'ring pageant to the mid-day fun:
In the stiff awkwardness of foolish pride,
The swelling turkey apes his stately step,
And calls the bristling feathers round his head.
There the loud herald of the morning struts.