Imágenes de página

When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought-but it might not be fo-
'Twas with pain that the faw me depart.
She gaz'd, as I flowly withdrew;

My path I could hardly discern;

So fweetly the bade me adieu,

I thought that the bade me return.

The Pilgrim that journeys all day
To vifit fome far-diftant fhrine,

If he bear but a relique away,

Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,

Soft hope is the relique I bear,

And my folace wherever I go.



Y banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whofe murmur invites one to fleep;

My grottos are fhaded with trees,

And my hills are white over with sheep.

I feldom have met with a lofs,

Such health do my fountains beftow; My fountains all border'd with moss,

Where the hare-bells and violets grow.

[blocks in formation]

Not a pine in my grove is there feen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound:
Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a fweet-briar entwines it around.
Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.

One would think the might like to retire
To the bower I have labour'd to rear;
Not a fhrub that I heard her admire,
But I hafted and planted it there.
O how fudden the jeffamine ftrove
With the lilac to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love,

To prune the wild branches away.

From the plains, from the woodlands and groves.

What strains of wild melody flow!

How the nightingales warble their loves

From thickets of rofes that blow !
And when her bright form fhall appear,
Each bird fhall harmoniously join
In a concert fo foft and fo clear,
As-she may not be fond to refign.

I have found out a gift for my fair;

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear,

She will fay 'twas a barbarous deed.


For he ne'er could be true, fhe aver'd,

Who could rob a poor bird of its young: And I lov'd her the more when I heard

Such tendernefs fall from her tongue.

I have heard her with fweetness unfold
How that pity was due to-a dove :
That it ever attended the bold;

And the call'd it the fifter of love.
But her words fuch a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her fpeak, and whatever fhe fay,
Methinks I fhould love her the more.

Can a bofom fo gentle remain

Unmov'd, when her Corydon fighs!
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
Thefe plains and this valley defpife?
Dear regions of filence and fhade!

Soft fcenes of contentment and eafe!
Where I could have pleasingly ftray'd,
If aught, in her abfence, could please.

But where does my Phyllida ftray?

And where are her grots and her bowers?
Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
And the fhepherds as gentle as ours?
The groves may perhaps be as fair,

And the face of the valleys as fine;
The fwains may in manners compare,
But their love is not equal to mine.



WHY will you my paffion reprove?

Why term it a folly to grieve?

Ere I fhew you the charms of my love,
She is fairer than you can believe.
With her mien fhe enamours the brave;
With her wit the engages the free;
With her modefty pleases the grave;
She is every way pleafing to me.
O you that have been of her train,

Come and join in my amorous lays;
I could lay down my life for the swain,

That will fing but a fong in her praise.
When he fings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and liften the while;
Nay on him let not Phyllida frown;
-But I cannot allow her to fmile.

For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,
Might the ruin the peace of my
In ringlets he dreffes his hair,


And his crook is bestudded around; And his pipe-oh my Phillis beware

Of a magic there is in the found.


'Tis his with mock paffion to glow ;

'Tis his in fmooth tales to unfold,
-"How her face is as bright as the fnow,
And her bofom, be fure, is as cold.
How the nightingales labour the strain,
With the notes of his charmer to vie;
How they vary their accents in vain,
Repine at her triumphs, and die."

To the grove or the garden he ftrays,
And pillages every sweet;
Then, fuiting the wreath to his lays
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.

O Phyllis, he whispers, more fair,
More sweet than the jeffamine's flower!
What are pinks in a morn, to compare ?
What is eglantine, after a fhower?

Then the lily no longer is white;

Then the rofe is depriv'd of its bloom;
Then the violets die with defpight,

And the wood-bines give up their perfume."
Thus glide the foft numbers along,

And he fancies no fhepherd his peer;

-Yet I never fhould envy the fong,
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.

Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,

So Phyllis the trophy despise:
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,

So they fhine not in Phyllis's eyes.


« AnteriorContinuar »