« ПретходнаНастави »
Drench'd with the rain,
And all the biting blast fustain.
My Tom, my little BABE, and I,
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.
Whose flocks never carelessly roam
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 :
If I knew of a kid that was mine.
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.
What anguish I felt at my heart :
'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.
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
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;
But it glitters with fishes of gold.
To the bow'r I have labour'd to rear;
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.
So much I her accents adore,
Methinks I should love her the more.
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."