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the most beautiful paffages, and to pass by those which were too coarfe, or not well enough adapted to the time in which he lived. Hence the Bucolicks of Virgil are called Eclogues, or felect pocins; because they are not a general collection of all the various fubjects of Paftoral Poetry, or an imitation of the whole thirty. Idyllia of Theo critus; but only a few chofen pieces, in which that Poet's manner of writing is in fome meafure imitated; but at the fame time very much, improved. The Simplicity, the Innocence, and the Piety, which many of our Criticks think effential to a Pastoral, are far more confpicuous in the Bucolicks of Virgil, than in the Idyllia of Theocritus. The Lover, in the twenty-third Idyllium, hangs himself, whereas Corydon, in the fecond Eclogue, fees the folly of his unruly paffion, and repents. The fhepherds, indeed, in the third Eclogue, rail fharply at each other; and Damoetas goes fo far fo far as to hint at fome obfcene action of his adverfary: but the Travellers, in the fifth Idyllium, fpeak out plainly, in terms not fit to be repeated. We are not entertained by Virgil with any particular Hymn, in honour of Gods and Heroes. He looked upon that, as the province of the Lyric Poet, which we are told * he left enMartial, Lib. VIII. Ep. 18.

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tirely to his friend Horace. But there is an air of Piety and Religion, that runs through all the Eclogues, and indeed through all the writings of our excellent Poet.

As for the particular beauties of thefe Bucolicks, the Reader will find moft of them pointed out in the following Notes: but there is one general beauty, which muft not be paffed by without observation. In almost every Eclogue, we are entertained with a rural Scene, a fort of fine Landscape, painted by a most masterly hand. In the Tityrus, a fhepherd is lying at eafe, under the fhade of a fpreading beech, playing on his rural pipe; whilft another reprefents the different fituation of his unhappy circumftances. We have the prospect before us of a country, partly rocky and partly marshy, a river and facred fprings, bees humming about the willows, and pigeons and turtles cooing on the lofty elms: and at laft with the defcription of the evening, the lengthening of the fhadows, and the fmoaking of the cottage chimneys. In the Alexis, a mournful fhepherd la ments his unhappy paffion, in a thick wood of beech-trees: we are prefented with a most beautiful collection of flowers; and we see the tired oxen bringing back the plough after their work is over, and the fetting fun doubles the length of the fhadows.

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fhadows. The country is in it's full beauty, in the Palaemon; the grafs is foft, the fruit-trees are in bloffom, and the woods are green. The carv ing of the two cups is excellent, and far exceeds that in the firft Idyllium of Theocritus. In the Pollio, we have a view of the Golden Age defcending a fecond time from heaven; the earth pouring forth flowers and fruits of it's own accord; grapes hanging upon thorns; honey dropping from oaks and fheep naturally cloathed with fcarlet wool.

In the Daphnis, two fhepherds

meet under the fhade of elms intermixed with hazles, and retire for better fhade, into a cave covered by a wild vine; where they fing alternately the death, and deification of Daphnis. Silenus, in the fixth, is found by two young fhepherds afleep in a cave, intoxicated with wine, his garland fallen from his head, and his battered pitcher hanging down. A nymph affifts them, in binding him with his own garland, ftains his face with mulberries, and compels him to fing: upon which the Fauns and wild beasts immediately. dance to his measure, and the oaks bend their ftubborn heads. In the Meliboeus, two herdmen have driven their flocks together, one of theep and the other of goats, on the reedy banks of the Menzo, where a fwarm of bees is buzzing in a

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hollow roak. In the Pharmaceutria, the heifers leave their food, to attend to the fongs of Damón and Alphefiboeus; the ounces ftand aftonished, and the very rivers flacken their courfe. In the ninth, Moeris is carrying two kids on the road to Mantua, when he meets with his friend Lycidas, and falls into difcourfe with him. Virgil's farm is defcribed; reaching from the declivity of the hills down to the river, with an old broken beechtree for the land-mark. They go on finging, till the middle of their journey is diftinguished, by the profpect of the fepulchre of Bianor, and the lake of Mantua. In the laft Eclogue, the Poet paints his friend Gallus, in the character of a hepherd, furrounded by his fheep. The feveral forts of Herdmen come to vifit him; nor is he unattended by Apollo, the god of verfe, or by Sylvanus and Pan, the deities of the country. The scene is laid in Arcadia, the fountain of paftoral poetry, where the Poet gives us a profpect of the pines of Maenalus, the rocks of Lycaeus, and the lawns of Parthenius. In the conclufion of the work, Virgil reprefents himself under the character of a goatherd, weaving flight twigs in to baskets, under the fhade of a Juniper. This variety of images has been feldom confidered B thofe, who have attempted to write Paftorals;

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and having now feen this excellence of Virgil, we may venture to affirm, that there is fomething more required in a good Paftoral, than the affectation of using coarfe, rude, or obfolete expreffi+ ons or a mere nothingnefs, without either thought or defign, under a falfe notion of rural fimplicity.

It is not a little furprizing, that many of our modern Poets and Criticks fhould be of opinion, that the rufticity of Theocritus is to be imitated, rather than the rural delicacy of Virgil. If the Originals of things are always the most valuable, we ought to perform our Tragedies in a cart; and the actors faces ought to be ftained with lees of wine*: we fhould reject the ufe of corn, and feed upon acorns, like the ancient Arcadians.

I would not be thought, by what has been here faid, to endeavour to depreciate the merit of Theocritus. On the contrary, I believe there are few, if any, that more admire the beauties of that ancient Writer. I confider him as the father of Pastoral Poetry, to whom we are originally obliged for every thing that has been well written in this kind, and to whom we owe even the Bucolicks of Virgil. Theocritus is like a rich mine, in which there is a plenty of ore: but a skilful hand

* See the note on ver. 383. of the firft Georgick.

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