Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ECLOGUE ON NOBLE ASSEMBLIES REVIVED ON COTWSOLD HILLS BY ROBERT DOVER, by THOMAS RANDOLPH


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ECLOGUE ON NOBLE ASSEMBLIES REVIVED ON COTWSOLD HILLS BY ROBERT DOVER, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: What clodpates, thenot, are our british swains!
Last Line: To saint him in the shepherd's calendar.
Subject(s): Cotswold Hills, England; Country Life; Games; Recreation; Pastimes; Amusements


COLIN. THENOT.

Col. WHAT clodpates, Thenot, are our British swains!
How lubberlike they loll upon the plains!
No life, no spirit in 'em; every clown,
Soon as he lays his hook and tarbox down,
That ought to take his reed, and chant his lays,
Or nimbly run the winding of the maze,
Now gets a bush to room himself, and sleep:
'Tis hard to know the shepherd from the sheep.
And yet (methinks) our English pastures be
As flowery as the lawns of Arcady,
Our virgins blithe as theirs; nor can proud Greece
Boast purer air, nor shear a finer fleece.
The. Yet view their outside, Colin, you would say,
They have as much brawn in their necks as they.
Fair Tempe brags of lusty arms that swell
With able sinews, and might hurl as well
The weighty sledge; their legs and thighs of bone,
Great as Colossus, yet their strength is gone;
They look like yonder man of wood, that stands
To bound the limits of the parish lands.
Dost thou ken, Colin, what the cause might be
Of such a dull and general lethargy?
Col. Swain, with their sports their souls were ta'en away,
Till then they all were active every day,
They exercis'd to wield their limbs, that now
Are numb'd to everything but flail and plough.
Early in May up got the jolly rout,
Call'd by the lark, and spread the fields about:
One, for to breathe himself, would coursing be
From this same beech to yonder mulberry,
A second leap'd his supple nerves to try;
A third was practising his melody;
This a new jig was footing, others were
Busied at wrestling, or to throw the bar,
Ambitious which should bear the bell away,
And kiss the nut-brown lady of the May.
This stirr'd 'em up; a jolly swain was he,
Whom Peg and Susan after victory
Crown'd with a garland they had made, beset
With daisies, pinks, and many a violet,
Cowslip, and gilliflower. Rewards, though small,
Encourage virtue, but if none at all
Meet her, she languisheth, and dies, as now
Where worth's deni'd the honour of a bough.
And, Thenot, this the cause I read to be
Of such a dull and general lethargy.
The. Ill thrive the lout that did their mirth gainsay!
Wolves haunt his flocks that took those sports away!
Col. Some melancholy swains about have gone
To teach all zeal their own complexion:
Choler they will admit sometimes, I see,
But phlegm and sanguine no religions be.
These teach that dancing is a Jezebel,
And barley-break the ready way to hell;
The morrice-idols, Whitsun-ales, can be
But profane relics of a jubilee!
These, in a zeal t'express how much they do
The organs hate, have silenc'd bagpipes, too,
And harmless Maypoles, all are rail'd upon,
As if they were the towers of Babylon.
Some think not fit there should be any sport
I' th' country, 'tis a dish proper to th' Court.
Mirth not becomes 'em; let the saucy swain
Eat beef and bacon, and go sweat again.
Besides, what sport can in the pastimes be,
When all is but ridiculous foppery?
The. Colin, I once the famous Spain did see,
A nation glorious for her gravity;
Yet there a hundred knights on warlike steeds
Did skirmish out a fight arm'd but with reeds;
At which a thousand ladies' eyes did gaze,
Yet 'twas no better than our prison-base.
What is the barriers but a courtly way
Of our more downright sport, the cudgel play?
Football with us may be with them baloon;
As they at tilt, so we at quintain run.
And those old pastimes relish best with me
That have least art and most simplicity.
Colin, they say at Court there is an art
To dance a lady's honour from her heart;
Such wiles poor shepherds know not; all their sense
Is dull to anything but innocence.
The country lass, although her dance be good,
Stirs not another's galliard in the blood.
And yet their sports by some controll'd have been,
Who think there is no mirth but what is sin.
O, might I but their harmless gambols see
Restor'd unto an ancient liberty,
Where spotless dalliance traces o'er the plains,
And harmless nymphs jet it with harmless swains!
To see an age again of innocent loves
Twine close as vines, yet kiss as chaste as doves,
Methinks I could the Thracian lyre have strung,
Or tun'd my whistle to the Mantuan song.
Col. Then tune thy whistle, boy, and string thy lyre.
That age is come again, thy brave desire
Pan hath approv'd; dancing shall be this year
Holy as is the motion of a sphere.
The. Colin, with sweeter breath fame never blew
Her sacred trump, if this good news be true!
Col. Know'st thou not Cotswold Hills?
The. Through all the land
No finer wool runs through the spinster's hand.
But, silly Colin, ill thou dost divine;
Canst thou mistake a bramble for a pine?
Or think this bush a cedar? or suppose
Yon hamlet, where to sleep each shepherd goes,
In circuit, buildings, people, power, and name
Equals the bow string'd by the silver Thame?
As well thou may'st their sports with ours compare,
As the soft wool of lambs with the goat's hair.
Col. Last evening, lad, I met a noble swain,
That spurr'd his sprightful palfrey o'er the plain,
His head with ribbons crown'd, and deck'd as gay
As any lass upon her bridal day:
I thought (what easy faiths we shepherds prove!)
This, not the bull, had been Europa's love.
I ask'd the cause; they told me this was he,
Whom this day's triumph crown'd with victory.
Many brave steeds there were; some you should find
So fleet as they had been sons of the wind;
Others with hoofs so swift beat o'er the race,
As if some engine shot 'em to the place.
So many and so well-wing'd steeds there were,
As all the brood of Pegasus had been there.
Rider and horse could not distinguish'd be;
Both seem'd conjoin'd -- a centaur's progeny.
A numerous troop they were, yet all so light,
Earth never groan'd, nor felt 'em in their flight,
Such royal pastimes Cotswold mountains fill,
When gentle swains visit her glorious hill:
Where with such packs of hounds they hunting go
As Cyrus ne'er did wind his bugle to.
Whose noise is musical, and with full cries
Beats o'er the fields, and echoes through the skies.
Orion hearing wish'd to leave his sphere,
And call his dog from heaven to sport it there.
Wat, though he fled for life, yet joy'd withal
So brave a dirge sung forth his funeral.
Not Syren's sweetlier rill: hares, as they fly,
Look back, as glad to listen, loth to die.
The. No doubt, but from the brave heroic fire
In the more noble hearts sparks of desire
May warm the colder boors, and emulous strife
Give the old mirth and innocence a new life.
When thoughts of fame their quicken'd souls shall fill
At every glance that shows 'em Cotswold Hill.
Col. There, shepherd, there the solemn games be play'd,
Such as great Theseus or Alcides made:
Such as Apollo wishes he had seen,
And Jove desires had his invention been!
The Nemean and the Isthmian pastimes still,
Though dead in Greece, survive on Cotswold Hill.
The. O happy hill! the gentle Graces now
Shall trip o'er thine, and leave Citheron's brow:
Parnassus' cliff shall sink below his spring,
And every Muse shall on thy frontlet sing.
The goddesses again in strife shall be,
And from Mount Ida make appeal to thee;
Olympus pay thee homage, and in dread
The aged Alps shall bow his snowy head.
Flora with all her store thy temples crown,
Whose height shall reach the stars: gods, lookin down,
Shall bless the incense that thy flowers exhale,
And make thee both a mountain and a vale.
How many ladies on thy top shall meet,
And press thy tresses with their od'rous feet!
Whose eyes when wand'ring men see from afar,
They'll think thee heaven and each of them a star.
But, gentle Colin, say what god or man
Fame we for this great work, Daphnis or Pan?
Col. Daphnis is dead, and Pan hath broke his reed,
Tell all your flocks 'tis jovial Dover's deed.
Behold the shepherds in their ribands go,
And shortly all the nymphs shall wear 'em too:
Amaz'd to see such glory met together,
Bless Dover's pipe, whose music call'd 'em hither.
Sport you, my rams, at sound of Dover's name;
Big-bellied ewes, make haste to bring a lamb
For Dover's fold. Go, maids, and lilies get
To make him up a glorious coronet.
Swains, keep his holiday, and each man swear
To saint him in the Shepherd's Calendar.





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