Слике страница

Drench'd with the rain,
I'll lay me by my TOM once more,
Tho' louder still the tempefis roar,

And all the biting blast fustain.
-Ah me! my shiv'ring, fainting heart !
My Tom! my tom! we shall not part.
Far from our home, from friends afar,

My Tom, my little BABE, and I,
Shall relt in one cold bed-Ah! ruthless war!

My heart !--O heav'n!--I faint.--I die.


TO-MORROW you will live, you always cry;

In what far country does to-morrow lie: That 'tis so mighty long e'er it arrive ? Beyond the Indies, does this morrow live? 'Tis so far fetch'd, this morrow, that I fear, "Twill be both very old, and very dear. To-morrow I will live, the fool does fay, To-day's too late ; the wife liv'd yesterday.

YE shepherds fo cheerful and gay,

Whose flocks never carelessly roam
Should corydon's happen to stray,

Oh! call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to mule and to high,

Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was so watchful as I ;

I have left my dear Phyllis behind. Now I know what it is to have strove

With the torture of doubt and defire ; 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 ev'ning repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn :

I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell. Since phYLLIS vouchsaf'd 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 priz'd ev'ry hour that went by,

Beyond all that had pleas'd me before, But now they are past, and I figh;

And I grieve that I priz'd 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 forcéd 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 gaz’d, as I Nowly withdrew;

My path I could hardly discern, So sweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that The bade me return. The pilgrim that journies all day

To vitit fome far-distant shrine, 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,


MY banks they are furnih'd

with bees, Whose murmur invites one to deep; My grottos are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white over with sheep. I feldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all border’d with moss,

Where the hare-bells and violets grow. Not a pine in my grove is there seen,

But with tendiils of woodbine is bound: Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a sweet-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 she might like to retire

To the bow'r I have labour'd to rear;
Not a shrub that I heard her admire,

But I hafted 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 ftrains of wild melody flow! How the nightingales warble their loves

From the thickets of roses that blow! And when her bright form shall appear,

Each bird shall harmoniously join In a concert fo foft and so clear,

As-lhe 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 aver'd,

Who could rob a poor bird of its young: And I lov'd 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 fifter 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 bofom so gentle remain

Unmov'd when her corydon fighs ? 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 liray’d,

Ifaught in her absence could please. But where does my PHYLLIDA firay?

And where are her grots and her bowers Are the groves and the vallies as gay,

And the thepherds as gentle as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair,

And the face of the vallies as fine, The twains may in manners compare,

Eut their love is not equal to mine,


WHY will you my passion reprove ?

Why term it a folly to grieve? Ere I Mew 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 ev'ry 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 fing but a song in her praise. When he fings, 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 dreffes his hair,

And his crook is bestudded around; And his pipe--oh! my Phyllis, beware

Of a magic there is in the found. '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."


« ПретходнаНастави »