She tells me how with eager speed
He flew, to hear my vocal reed;
And how with critic face profound,
And ftedfaft ear, devour'd the found.
His every frolic, light as air,
Deferves the gentle Delia's care;
And tears bedew her tender eye,
To think the playful kid must die.—
But knows my Delia, timely wife,
How foon this blameless æra flies?
While violence and craf: fucceed;
Unfair defign, and ruthless deed!
Soon would the vine his wounds deplore,
And yield her purple gifts no more ;
Ah foon, eras'd from every grove
Were Delia's name, and Strephon's love.
No more those bowers might Strephon fee,
Where firft he fondly gaz'd on thee;
No more those beds of flowerets find,
Which for thy charming brows he twin'd.
Each wayward paffion foon would tear
His bofom, now fo void of care;
And, when they left his ebbing vein,
What, but infipid age, remain?
Then mourn not the decrees of fate,
That gave his life fo fhort a date;
And I will join thy tendereft fighs,
To think that youth so swiftly flies!
Written chiefly between the Year 1737 and 1742.
Told my nymph, I told her true,
My fields were fmall, my flocks were few ;
While faultering accents spoke my fear,
That Flavia might not prove fincere,
Of crops deftroy'd by vernal cold,
And vagrant sheep that left my fold:
Of thefe he heard, yet bore to hear;
And is not Flavia then fincere ?
How chang'd by fortune's fickle wind,
The friends I lov'd became unkind,
She heard, and fhed a generous tear;
And is not Flavia then fincere?
How, if she deign my love to bless,
My Flavia must not hope for drefs;
This too fhe heard, and fiil'd to hear;
And Flavia fure must be fincere.
Go fhear your flocks, ye jovial fwains,
Go reap the plenty of your plains;
Dispoil'd of all which you reverė, '
I know my Flavia's love fincere.
SONG II. The LANDSKIP.
HOW pleas'd within my native bowers
Ere while I pafs'd the day!
Was ever fcene fo deck'd with flowers?
Were ever flowers fo gay ?
How sweetly fmil'd the hill, the vale,
And all the landskip round!
The river gliding down the dale!
The hill with beeches crown'd!
But now, when urg'd by tender woes
I speed to meet my dear,
That hill and stream my zeal oppose,
And check my fond career.
No more, fince Daphne was my theme,
Their wonted charms I fee:
That verdant hill, and filver stream,
Divide my love and me.
E gentle nymphs and generous dames,
That rule o'er every British mind;
Be fure ye foothe their amorous flames,
Be fure your laws are not unkind.
For hard it is to wear their bloom
In unremitting fighs away:
To mourn the night's oppreffive gloom,
And faintly bless the rifing day.
And cruel 'twere a free-born fwain,
A British youth, should vainly moan;
Who, fcornful of a tyrant's chain,
Submits to yours, and yours alone.
Nor pointed spear, nor links of steel,
Could e'er thofe gallant minds fubdue,
Who beauty's wounds with pleasure feel,
And boaft the fetters wrought by you.
SONG IV. The SKY-LARA.
Go, tuneful bird, that glad'ft the skies,
To Daphne's window speed thy way;
And there on quivering pinions rife,
And there thy vocal art display.
And if she deign thy notes to hear,
And if the praise thy matin fong,
Tell her, the founds that foothe her ear,
To Damon's native plains belong.
Tell her, in livelier plumes array'd,
The bird from Indian groves may shine;
But ask the lovely partial maid,
What are his notes compar'd to thine?
Then bid her treat yon witlefs beau
And all his flaunting race with fcorn
And lend an ear to Damon's woe,
Who fings her praife, and fings forlorn.
"Ah! ego non aliter triftes evincere morbos "Optarem, quam te fic quoque velle putem."
N every tree, in every plain,
I trace the jovial spring in vain!
A fickly languor veils mine eyes,
And fat my waning vigour flies.
Nor flowery plain, nor budding tree,
That fmile on other, fmile on me;
Mine eyes from death fhall court repofe,
Nor fhed a tear before they clofe.
What blifs to me can feafons bring?
Or what the needlefs pride of fpring?
The cypress bough, that fuits the bier,
Retains its verdure all the year.
'Tis true, my vine fo fresh and fair
Might claim a while my wonted care;
My rural store fome pleafure yield;
So white a flock, fo green a field!
My friends, that each in kindness vie,
Might well expect one parting figh;
Might well demand one tender tear ;
For when was Damon unfincere ?
But ere I afk once more to view
Yon fetting fun his race renew,
Inform me, fwains; my friends, declare,
Will pitying Delia join the prayer?
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