by William Shenstone
Arbusta humilesque myricæ.
VIRG.
EXPLANATION.
Groves and lowly shrubs.
Ye Shepherds! so cheerful and gay,
Whose flocks never carelessly roam,
Should Corydon's happen to stray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to muse and to sigh,
Nor talk of the change that ye find;
None once was so watchful as I:
--I have left my dear Phillis behind.
Now I know what it is, to have strove
With the torture of doubt and desire;
What it is to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire.
Ah! lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each evening repel.
Alas! I am faint and forlorn:
--I have bade my dear Phillis farewell.
Since Phillis vouchsafed me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine:
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine.
I prized every hour that went by
Beyond all that had pleased me before;
But now they are past, and I sigh,
And I grieve that I prized them no more.
But why do I languish in vain?
Why wander thus pensively here?
Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?
They tell me my favourite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown;
Alas! where with her I have stray'd
I could wander with pleasure, alone.
When forced the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought--but it might not be so--
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart.
She gazed as I slowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly discern:
So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return.
The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far-distant shrine,
If he bear but a relic away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely removed from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relic I bear,
And my solace, wherever I go.
My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a loss,
Such health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains all border'd with moss,
Where the harebells and violets grow.
Not a pine in the grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;
Not a beech's more beautiful green
But a sweetbriar 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 she might like to retire
To the bower I have labour'd to rear:
Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
But I hasted and planted it there.
O how sudden the jessamine strove
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 roses that blow
And when her bright form shall appear,
Each bird shall harmoniously join
In a concert so soft and so clear,
As--she may not be fond to resign.
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 say 'twas a barbarous deed:
For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young;
And I loved her the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
I have heard her with sweetness unfold
How that pity was due to--a dove;
That it ever attended the bold,
And she call'd it the sister of Love.
But her words such a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever she say,
Methinks I should love her the more.
Can a bosom so gentle remain
Unmoved, when her Corydon sighs?
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
These plains and this valley despise?
Dear regions of silence and shade!
Soft scenes of contentment and ease!
Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,
If aught in her absence could please.
But where does my Phyllida stray?
And where are her grots and her bowers?
Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
And the shepherds as gentle as ours?
The groves may perhaps be as fair,
And the face of the valleys as fine;
The swains may in manners compare,
But their love is not equal to mine.
Why will you my passion reprove?
Why term it a folly to grieve?
Ere I show you the charms of my love,
She is fairer than you can believe.
With her mien she enamours the brave;
With her wit she engages the free
With her modesty pleases the grave;
She is every way pleasing 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 sing but a song in her praise.
When he sings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and listen the while;
Nay, on him let not Phyllida frown,--
But I cannot allow her to smile.
For when Paridel tries, in the dance,
Any favour with Phyllis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,
Might she ruin the peace of my mind!
In ringlets he dresses his hair,
And his crook is bestudded around;
And his pipe--oh, my Phyllis, beware
Of a magic there is in the sound!
'Tis his with mock passion to glow;
'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold,
How her face is as bright as the snow,
And her bosom, be sure, 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 strays,
And pillages every sweet
Then suiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
"O Phyllis!" he whispers, "more fair,
More sweet than the jessamine's flower!
What are pinks in the morn to compare?
What is eglantine after a shower?
"Then the lilly no longer is white,
Then the rose is deprived of its bloom,
Then the violets die with despight,
And the woodbines give up their perfume."
Thus glide the soft numbers along,
And he fancies no shepherd his peer;
--Yet I never should envy the song,
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 shine not in Phyllis's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart,
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue:
--Yet may she beware of his art,
Or sure I must envy the song.
Ye Shepherds! give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my sheep;
They have nothing to do but to stray;
I have nothing to do but to weep.
Yet do not my folly reprove;
She was fair--and my passion begun;
She smiled--and I could not but love:
She is faithless--and I am undone.
Perhaps I was void of all thought;
Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
That a nymph so complete would be sought
By a swain more engaging than me.
Ah! love every hope can inspire;
It banishes wisdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.
She is faithless, and I am undone:
Ye that witness the woes I endure,
Let reason instruct you to shun
What it cannot instruct you to cure.
Beware how you loiter in vain
Amid nymphs of a higher degree;
It is not for me to explain
How fair and how fickle they be.
Alas! from the day that we met,
What hope of an end to my woes?
When I cannot endure to forget
The glance that undid my repose.
Yet time may diminish the pain:
The flower, and the shrub, and the tree,
Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,
In time may have comfort for me.
The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,
The sound of a murmuring stream,
The peace which from solitude flows,
Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme.
High transports are shown to the sight,
But we're not to find them our own.
Fate never bestow'd such delight
As I with my Phyllis had known.
O ye woods! spread your branches apace,
To your deepest recesses I fly;
I would hide with the beasts of the chase;
1 would vanish from every eye.
Yet my reed shall resound through the grove
With the same sad complaint it begun;
How she smiled, and I could not but love;
Was faithless, and I am undone!
Will you hear how once repining
Great Eliza captive lay?
Each ambitious thought resigning,
Foe to riches, pomp, and sway.
While the nymphs and swains delighted
Tript around in all their pride,
Envying joys by others slighted,
Thus the royal maiden cried:
"Bred on plains, or born in valleys,
Who would bid those scenes adieu?
Stranger to the arts of malice,
Who would ever courts pursue?
"Malice never taught to treasure,
Censure never taught to bear;
Love is all the shepherd's pleasure;
Love is all the damsel's care.
"How can they of humble station
Vainly blame the powers above?
Or accuse the dispensation
Which allows them all to love?
"Love, like air, is widely given;
Power nor chance can these restrain;
Truest, noblest gifts of Heaven!
Only purest on the plain!
"Peers can no such charms discover,
All in stars and garters drest,
As on Sundays does the lover
With his nosegay on his breast.
"Pinks and roses in profusion,
Said to fade when Chloe's near;
Fops may use the same allusion,
But the shepherd is sincere.
"Hark to yonder milkmaid singing
Cheerily o'er the brimming pail,
Cowslips all around are springing,
Sweetly paint the golden vale.
"Never yet did courtly maiden
Move so sprightly, look so fair:
Never breast with jewels laden
Pour a song so void of care.
"Would indulgent Heaven had granted
Me some rural damsel's part!
All the empire I had wanted
Then had been my shepherd's heart.
"Then, with him, o'er hills and mountains,
Free from fetters, might I rove,
Fearless taste the crystal fountains,
Peaceful sleep beneath the grove.
"Rustics had been more forgiving,
Partial to my virgin bloom;
None had envied me when living;
None had triumph'd o'er my tomb."
Nerine Galatea! thymo mihi dulcior Hyblae!
Candidior cygnis! hedera formosior alba!
The western sky was purpled o'er
With every pleasing ray;
And flocks reviving felt no more
The sultry heats of day;
When from an hazel's artless bower
Soft warbled Strephon's tongue;
He blest the scene, he blest the hour,
While Nancy's praise he sung.
"Let fops with fickle falsehood range
The paths of wanton love,
While weeping maids lament their change,
And sadden every grove:
"But endless blessings crown the day
I saw fair Esham's dale!
And every blessing find its way
To Nancy of the Vale.
"'Twas from Avona's banks the maid
Diffused her lovely beams,
And every shining glance display'd
The Naiad of the streams.
"Soft as the wild-duck's tender young,
That float on Avon's tide;
Bright as the water-lily, sprung,
And glittering near its side
"Fresh as the bordering flowers her bloom,
Her eye all mild to view;
The little halcyon's azure plume
Was never half so blue.
"Her shape was like the reed so sleek,
So taper, strait, and fair;
Her dimpled smile, her blushing cheek,
How charming sweet they were!
"Far in the winding vale retired,
This peerless bud I found,
And shadowing rocks and woods conspired
To fence her beauties round.
"That Nature in so lone a dell
Should form a nymph so sweet!
Or Fortune to her secret cell
Conduct my wandering feet!
"Gay lordlings sought her for their bride,
But she would ne'er incline:
'Prove to your equals true,' she cried,
'As I will prove to mine.
''Tis Strephon, on the mountain's brow,
Has won my right good will;
To him I gave my plighted vow,
With him I'll climb the hill.'
"Struck with her charms and gentle truth,
I clasp'd the constant fair;
To her alone I gave my youth,
And vow my future care.
"And when this vow shall faithless prove,
Or I those charms forego;
The stream that saw our tender love,
That stream shall cease to flow."
'Twas in a land of learning,
The Muse's favourite city,
Such pranks of late
Were play'd by a rat,
As--tempt one to be witty.
All in a college study,
Where books were in great plenty;
This rat would devour
More sense in an hour,
Than I could write--in twenty.
Corporeal food, 'tis granted,
Serves vermin less refined,
Sir But this, a rat of taste,
All other rats surpass'd,
And he prey'd on the food of the mind, Sir.
His breakfast, half the morning
He constantly attended;
And when the bell rung
For evening song,
His dinner scarce was ended!
He spared not even heroics,
On which we poets pride us,
And would make no more
Of King Arthurs, by the score,
Than--all the world beside does.
In books of geography
He made the maps to flutter;
A river or a sea
Was to him a dish of tea;
And a kingdom, bread and butter.
But if some mawkish potion
Might chance to overdose him,
To check its rage,
He took a page
Of logic--to compose him--
A Trap, in haste and anger,
Was brought, you need not doubt on't,
And, such was the gin,
Were a lion once got in,
He could not, I think, get out on't.
With cheese, not books, 'twas baited;
The fact--I'll not belie it--
Since none--I tell you that--
Whether scholar or rat,
Minds books when he has other diet.
But more of Trap and bait, Sir,
Why should I sing, or either?
Since the rat, who knew the sleight,
Came in the dead of night,
And dragg'd them away together.
Both Trap and bait were vanish'd
Through a fracture in the flooring;
Which though so trim
It now may seem
Had then--a dozen or more in.
Then answer this, ye sages!
Nor deem I mean to wrong ye,
Had the rat, which thus did seize on
The Trap, less claim to reason,
Than many a skull among ye?
Dan Prior's mice, I own it,
Were vermin of condition;
But this rat, who merely learn'd
What rats alone concern'd,
Was the greater politician.
That England's topsyturvy
Is clear from these mishaps, Sir;
Since Traps, we may determine,
Will no longer take our vermin,
But vermin take our Traps, Sir.
Let sophs, by rats infested,
Then trust in cats to catch them,
Lest they grow as learn'd as we
In our studies ; where, d' ye see,
No mortal sits to watch them.
Good luck betide our captains,
Good luck betide our cats, Sir,
And grant that the one
May quell the Spanish Don,
And the other destroy our rats, Sir.
Come listen to my mournful tale,
Ye tender hearts and lovers dear!
Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh,
Nor need you blush to shed a tear.
And thou dear Kitty! peerless maid!
Do thou a pensive ear incline;
For thou canst weep at every woe,
And pity every plaint--but mine.
Young Dawson was a gallant boy,
A brighter never trod the plain;
And well he loved one charming maid,
And dearly was he loved again.
One tender maid, she loved him dear;
Of gentle blood the damsel came;
And faultless was her beauteous form,
And spotless was her virgin fame.
But curse on party's hateful strife,
That led the favour'd youth astray;
The day the rebel clans appear'd--
O had he never seen that day!
Their colours and their sash he wore,
And in the fatal dress was found;
And now he must that death endure
Which gives the brave the keenest wound.
How pale was then his true love's cheek,
When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear!
For never yet did Alpine snows
So pale, or yet so chill appear.
With faltering voice she, weeping, said,
"O Dawson! monarch of my heart!
Think not thy death shall end our loves,
For thou and I will never part.
"Yet might sweet mercy find a place,
And bring relief to Jemmy's woes,
O George! without a prayer for thee,
My orisons should never close.
"The gracious prince that gave him life,
Would crown a never-dying flame;
And every tender babe I bore
Should learn to lisp the giver's name.
"But though he should be dragg'd in scorn
To yonder ignominious tree;
He shall not want one constant friend
To share the cruel Fates' decree."
Oh! then her mourning coach was call'd;
The sledge moved slowly on before;
Though borne in a triumphal car,
She had not loved her favourite more.
She follow'd him, prepared to view
The terrible behests of law;
And the last scene of Jemmy's woes,
With calm and steadfast eye she saw.
Distorted was that blooming face,
Which she had fondly loved so long;
And stifled was that tuneful breath,
Which in her praise had sweetly sung:
And sever'd was that beauteous neck,
Round which her arms had fondly closed;
And mangled was that beauteous breast,
On which her lovesick head reposed:
And ravish'd was that constant heart,
She did to every heart prefer;
For though it could its king forget,
'Twas true and loyal still to her.
Amid those unrelenting flames
She bore this constant heart to see;
But when 'twas moulder'd into dust,
"Yet, yet," she cried, "I follow thee.
"My death, my death alone can show
The pure, the lasting love I bore
Accept, O Heaven! of woes like ours,
And let us, let us weep no more."
The dismal scene was o'er and past,
The lover's mournful hearse retired;
The maid drew back her languid head,
And, sighing forth his name, expired.
Though justice ever must prevail,
The tear my Kitty sheds is due;
For seldom shall she hear a tale
So sad, so tender, yet so true.
Trahit sua quemque voluptas.--Hor.
From Lincoln to London rode forth our young squire,
To bring down a wife whom the swains might admire;
But, in spite of whatever the mortal could say,
The goddess objected the length of the way.
To give up the opera, the park, and the ball,
For to view the stag's horns in an old country hall;
To have neither China nor India to see,
Nor a laceman to plague in a morning--not she!
To forsake the dear playhouse, Quin, Garrick, and Clive,
Who by dint of mere humour had kept her alive;
To forego the full box for his lonesome abode,
O Heavens! she should faint, she should die on the road!
To forget the gay fashions and gestures of France,
And to leave dear Auguste in the midst of the dance,
And Harlequin too!--'twas in vain to require it,
And she wonder'd how folks had the face to desire it.
She might yield to resign the sweet singers of Ruckholt,
Where the citizen matron seduces her cuckold;
But Ranelagh soon would her footsteps recall,
And the music, the lamps, and the glare of Vauxhall.
To be sure she could breathe nowhere else than in Town.
Thus she talk'd like a wit, and he look'd like a clown;
But the while honest Harry despair'd to succeed,
A coach with a coronet trail'd her to Tweed.
I told my nymph, I told her true,
My fields were small, my flocks were few,
While faltering accents spoke my fear,
That Flavia might not prove sincere.
Of crops destroy'd by vernal cold,
And vagrant sheep that left my fold;
Of these she heard, yet bore to hear;
And is not Flavia then sincere?
How, changed by Fortune's fickle wind,
The friends I loved became unkind;
She heard, and shed a generous tear;
And is not Flavia then sincere?
How, if she deign my love to bless,
My Flavia must not hope for dress;
This, too, she heard, and smiled to hear;
And Flavia, sure, must be sincere.
Go, shear your flocks, ye jovial Swains!
Go reap the plenty of your plains;
Despoil'd of all which you revere,
I know my Flavia's love sincere.
How pleased within my native bowers
Erewhile I pass'd the day!
Was ever scene so deck'd with flowers?
Were ever flowers so gay?
How sweetly smiled the hill, the vale,
And all the landscape round!
The river gliding down the dale,
The hill with beeches crown'd!
But now, when urged by tender woes,
I speed to meet my dear,
That hill and stream my zeal oppose,
And check my fond career.
No more, since Daphne was my theme,
Their wonted charms I see;
That verdant hill and silver stream,
Divide my love and me.
Ye gentle Nymphs and generous Dames,
That rule o'er every British mind!
Be sure ye soothe their amorous flames,
Be sure your laws are not unkind:
For hard it is to wear their bloom
In unremitting sighs away;
To mourn the night's oppressive gloom,
And faintly bless the rising day.
And cruel 'twere a freeborn swain,
A British youth, should vainly moan;
Who, scornful of a tyrant's chain,
Submits to yours, and yours alone.
Nor pointed spear, nor links of steel,
Could e'er those gallant minds subdue,
Who Beauty's wounds with pleasure feel,
And boast the fetters wrought by you.
Go, tuneful Bird! that gladd'st the skies,
To Daphne's window speed thy way;
And there on quivering pinions rise,
And there thy vocal art display.
And if she deign thy notes to hear,
And if she praise thy matin song,
Tell her the sounds that soothe 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 compared to thine!
Then bid her treat yon witless beau,
And all his flaunting race with scorn;
And lend an ear to Damon's woe,
Who sings her praise, and sings forlorn.
Ah! ego non aliter tristes evincere morbos
Optarem, quam te sic quoque velle putem.
On every tree, in every plain,
I trace the jovial spring in vain;
A sickly langour veils mine eyes,
And fast my waning vigour flies.
Nor flowery plain, nor budding tree,
That smile on others, smile on me;
Mine eyes from death shall court repose,
Nor shed a tear before they close.
What bliss to me can seasons bring?
Or what the needless pride of spring?
The cypress bough, that suits the bier,
Retains its verdure all the year.
'Tis true, my vine, so fresh and fair,
Might claim awhile my wonted care;
My rural store some pleasure yield,
So white a flock, so green a field!
My friends, that each in kindness vie,
Might well expect one parting sigh;
Might well demand one tender tear;
For when was Damon insincere?
But ere I ask once more to view
Yon setting sun his race renew,
Inform me, Swains! my friends, declare,
Will pitying Delia join the prayer?
Yes; Fulvia is like Venus fair,
Has all her bloom, and shape, and air;
But still, to perfect every grace,
She wants--the smile upon her face.
The crown majestic Juno wore;
And Cynthia's brow the crescent bore;
An helmet mark'd Minerva's mien;
But smiles distinguish'd Beauty's queen.
Her train was form'd of Smiles and Loves;
Her chariot drawn by gentlest doves;
And from her zone, the nymph may find
'Tis Beauty's province to be kind.
Then smile, my Fair! and all, whose aim
Aspires to paint the Cyprian dame,
Or bid her breathe in living stone,
Shall take their forms from you alone.
When bright Roxana treads the green,
In all the pride of dress and mien,
Averse to freedom, love, and play,
The dazzling rival of the day;
None other beauty strikes mine eye,
The lilies droop, the roses die.
But when, disclaiming art, the fair
Assumes a soft engaging air;
Mild as the opening morn of May,
Familiar, friendly, free and gay,
The scene improves where'er she goes,
More sweetly smile the pink and rose.
O lovely Maid! propitious hear,
Nor deem thy shepherd insincere;
Pity a wild illusive flame,
That varies objects still the same;
And let their very changes prove
The never-varied force of love.
'Tis said that under distant skies,
Nor you the fact deny,
What first attracts an Indian's eyes
Becomes his deity.
Perhaps a lily, or a rose,
That shares the morning's ray,
May to the waking swain disclose
The regent of the day.
Perhaps a plant in yonder grove,
Enrich'd with fragrant power,
May tempt his vagrant eyes to rove
Where blooms the sovereign flower.
Perch'd on the cedar's topmost bough,
And gay with gilded wings,
Perchance, the patron of his vow,
Some artless linnet sings.
The swain surveys her pleased, afraid,
Then low to earth he bends;
And owns, upon her friendly aid,
His health, his life depends.
Vain futile idols, bird or flower,
To tempt a votary's prayer!--
How would his humble homage tower
Should he behold my fair!
Yes--might the Pagan's waking eyes,
O'er Flavia's beauty range,
He there would fix his lasting choice,
Nor dare, nor wish, to change.
The fatal hours are wondrous near,
That from these fountains bear my dear;
A little space is given; in vain
She robs my sight, and shuns the plain.
A little space, for me to prove
My boundless flame, my endless love;
And, like the train of vulgar hours,
Invidious Time that space devours.
Near yonder beech is Delia's way,
On that I gaze the livelong day;
No eastern monarch's dazzling pride
Should draw my longing eyes aside.
The chief that knows of succours nigh,
And sees his mangled legions die,
Casts not a more impatient glance
To see the loitering aids advance.
Not more the schoolboy, that expires
Far from his native home, requires
To see some friend's familiar face,
Or meet a parent's last embrace--
She comes--but, ah! what crowds of beaus
In radiant bands my fair enclose!
Oh! better hadst thou shunn'd the green;
Oh, Delia! better far unseen.
Methinks, by all my tender fears,
By all my sighs, by all my tears,
I might from torture now be free--
'Tis more than death to part from thee!
The lovely Delia smiles again!
That killing frown has left her brow;
Can she forgive my jealous pain,
And give me back my angry vow?
Love is an April's doubtful day;
Awhile we see the tempest lower,
Anon the radiant heaven survey,
And quite forget the flitting shower.
The flowers, that hung their languid head,
Are burnish'd by the transient rains;
The vines their wonted tendrils spread,
And double verdure gilds the plains.
The sprightly birds, that droop'd no less
Beneath the power of rain and wind,
In every raptured note express
The joy I feel--when thou art kind.
Perhaps it is not love, said I,
That melts my soul when Flavia's nigh;
Where wit and sense like hers agree,
One may be pleased, and yet be free.
The beauties of her polish'd mind
It needs no lover's eye to find;
The hermit freezing in his cell
Might wish the gentle Flavia well.
It is not love--averse to bear
The servile chain that lovers wear;
Let, let me all my fears remove,
My doubts dispel--it is not love.
Oh! when did wit so brightly shine
In any form less fair than thine?
It is--it is love's subtle fire,
And under friendship lurks desire.
O'er desert plains, and rushy meres,
And wither'd heaths I rove;
Where tree, nor spire, nor cot, appears,
I pass to meet my love.
But, though my path were damask'd o'er
With beauties e'er so fine,
My busy thoughts would fly before,
To fix alone--on thine.
No fir-crown'd hills could give delight,
No palace please mine eye;
No pyramid's aerial height,
Where mould'ring monarchs lie.
Unmoved, should Eastern kings advance,
Could I the pageant see:
Splendour might catch one scornful glance,
Nor steal one thought from thee.
No more, ye warbling birds! rejoice:
Of all that cheer'd the plain,
Echo alone preserves her voice,
And she--repeats my pain.
Where'er my lovesick limbs I lay
To shun the rushing wind,
Its busy murmurs seem to say,
"She never will be kind!"
The Naiads, o'er their frozen urns,
In icy chains repine;
And each in sullen silence mourns
Her freedom lost, like mine!
Soon will the sun's returning rays
The cheerless frost control;
When will relenting Delia chase
The winter of my soul?
By the side of a grove, at the foot of a hill,
Where whisper'd the beech, and where murmur'd the rill,
I vow'd to the Muses my time and my care,
Since neither could win me the smiles of my fair.
Free I ranged like the birds, like the birds free I
sung,
And Delia's loved name scarce escaped from my tongue;
But if once a smooth accent delighted my ear,
I should wish, unawares, that my Delia might hear.
With fairest ideas my bosom I stored,
Allusive to none but the nymph I adored;
And the more I, with study, my fancy refined,
The deeper impression she made on my mind.
So long as of Nature the charms I pursue,
I still must my Delia's dear image renew;
The Graces have yielded with Delia to rove,
And the Muses are all in alliance with Love.
"See, Daphne, see!" Florelio cried,
"And learn the sad effects of pride;
Yon shelter'd rose, how safe conceal'd!
How quickly blasted when reveal'd!
"The sun with warm attractive rays
Tempts it to wanton in the blaze;
A gale succeeds from eastern skies,
And all its blushing radiance dies.
"So you, my Fair! of charms divine,
Will quit the plains, too fond to shine
Where Fame's transporting rays allure,
Though here more happy, more secure.
"The breath of some neglected maid
Shall make you sigh you left the shade;
A breath to beauty's bloom unkind,
As, to the rose, an eastern wind."
The nymph replied!--"You first, my Swain!
Confine your sonnets to the plain;
One envious tongue alike disarms
You of your wit, me of my charms.
"What is, unknown, the poet's skill?
Or what, unheard, the tuneful thrill?
What, unadmired, a charming mien?
Or what the rose's blush unseen?"
Ye birds! for whom I rear'd the grove,
With melting lay salute my love;
My Daphne with your notes detain,
Or I have rear'd my grove in vain.
Ye flowers! before her footsteps rise:
Display at once your brightest dyes;
That she your opening charms may see,
Or what are all your charms to me?
Kind Zephyr! brush each fragrant flower,
And shed its odours round my bower;
Or never more, O gentle Wind!
Shall I from thee refreshment find.
Ye Streams! if e'er your banks I loved,
If e'er your native sounds improved,
May each soft murmur soothe my fair,
Or oh! 'twill deepen my despair.
And thou, my Grot! whose lonely bounds
The melancholy pine surrounds,
May Daphne praise thy peaceful gloom,
Or thou shalt prove her Damon's tomb.
Adieu, ye jovial Youths! who join
To plunge old Care in floods of wine;
And, as your dazzled eyeballs roll,
Discern him struggling in the bowl.
Nor yet is hope so wholly flown,
Nor yet is thought so tedious grown,
But limpid stream and shady tree
Retain, as yet, some sweets for me.
And see, through yonder silent grove,
See, yonder does my Daphne rove!
With pride her footsteps I pursue,
And bid your frantic joys adieu.
The sole confusion I admire,
Is that my Daphne's eyes inspire;
I scorn the madness you approve,
And value reason next to love.
Yes, these are the scenes where with Iris I stray'd,
But short was her sway for so lovely a maid!
In the bloom of her youth to a cloister she run,
In the bloom of her graces too fair for a nun!
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove,
So fatal to beauty, so killing to love!
Yes, these are the meadows, the shrubs, and the plains,
Once the scene of my pleasures, the scene of my pains;
How many soft moments I spent in this grove!
How fair was my nymph! and how fervent my love!
Be still though, my Heart! thine emotion give o'er;
Remember, the season of love is no more.
With her how I stray'd amid fountains and bowers
Or loiter'd behind, and collected the flowers!
Then breathless with ardour my fair one pursued,
And to think with what kindness my garland she view'd!
But be still, my fond Heart! this emotion give o'er;
Fain wouldst thou forget thou must love her no more.
When bright Ophelia treads the green,
In all the pride of dress and mien;
Averse to freedom, mirth and play,
The lofty rival of the day;
Methinks, to my enchanted eye,
The lilies droop, the roses die.
But when, disdaining art, the fair
Assumes a soft engaging air;
Mild as the opening morn of May,
And as the feather'd warblers gay;
The scene improves where'er she goes,
More sweetly smile the pink and rose.
O lovely maid! propitious hear,
Nor think thy Damon insincere.
Pity my wild delusive flame;
For though the flowers are still the same,
To me they languish, or improve,
And plainly tell me that I love.
When first, Philander, first I came
Where Avon rolls his winding stream,
The nymphs, how brisk, the swains, how gay,
To see Asteria, queen of May!
The parsons round her praises sung!
The steeples with her praises rung!--
I thought no sight that e'er was seen
Could match the sight of Barel's Green!
But now, since old Eugenio died--
The chief of poets, and the pride--
Now, meaner bards in vain aspire
To raise their voice, to tune their lyre!
Their lovely season now is o'er;
Thy notes, Florelio, please no more!
Nor more Asteria's smiles are seen--
Adieu!--the sweets of Barel's Green!
Why o'er the verdant banks of Ouse
Does yonder Halcyon speed so fast?
'Tis all because she would not lose
Her favourite calm, that will not last.
The sun with azure paints the skies,
The stream reflects each flowery spray,
And, frugal of her time, she flies
To take her fill of love and play!
See her, when rugged Boreas blows,
Warm in some rocky cell remain;
To seek for pleasure, well she knows,
Would only then enhance the pain.
"Descend," she cries, "thou hated shower,
Deform my limpid waves to-day,
For I have chose a fairer hour
To take my fill of love and play!"
You, too, my Silvia, sure will own
Life's azure seasons swiftly roll,
And when our youth or health is flown,
To think of love, but shocks the soul.
Could Damon but deserve thy charms,
As thou art Damon's only theme;
He'd fly as quick to Celia's arms
As yonder Halcyon stems the stream.
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