« EelmineJätka »
He said, 'Alexis, take this pipe, the same
And yet my numbers please the rural throng, Rough satyrs dance, and Pan applands the song: The nymphs, forsaking every cave and spring, Their early fruit and milk-white turtles bring; Each amorous nymph prefers her gifts in vain, On your their gifts are all bestow'd again.
For you the swains the fairest flowers design,
See what delights in silvan scenes appear!
The mossy fountains, and the green retreats! Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade, Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade:
Where'er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise,
AUTUMN; OR HYLAS AND EGON.
BENEATH the shade a spreading beech displays,
This mourn'd a faithless, that an absent love,
Thou, whom the Nine with Plautus' wit inspire,
O, skill'd in nature! see the hearts of swains,
Now setting Phoebus shone serenely bright, And fleecy clouds were streak'd with purple light; When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan,
Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan.
"Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.
As some sad turtle his lost love deplores,
And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores; Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn, Alike unheard, unpitied, and forlorn.
'Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along! For her, the feather'd quires neglect their song; For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny; For her, the lilies hang their heads and die. Ye flowers that droop, forsaken by the spring, Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing, Ye trees, that fade when autumn-heats remove, Say, is not absence death to those who love?
'Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! Curs'd be the fields that cause my Delia's stay: Fade every blossom, wither every tree, Die every flower, and perish all but she.— What bave I said? Where'er my Delia flies, Let spring attend, and sudden flowers arise! Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn, And liquid amber drop from every thorn.
'Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along! The birds shall cease to tune their evening song, The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move, And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love. Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain, Not balmy sleep to labourers faint with pain,
Not showers to larks, or sunshine to the bee,
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay? Through rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds, Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds. Ye powers, what pleasing frenzy soothes my mind! Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?
She comes, my Delia comes!-Now cease my lay, And cease, ye gales, to bear my sighs away!'
Next Egon sung, while Windsor-groves admir'd:-
Here where the mountains, lessening as they rise,
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain; Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine, And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine; Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove: Just gods! shall all things yield returns but love? Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! The shepherds cry, "Thy flocks are left a prey.".
Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep,
What eyes but her's, alas, have power to move!
'Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains!
• Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! Farewell, ye woods; adieu the light of day! One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains, No more, ye hills, no more resound my strains!' Thus sung the shepherds till the' approach of night, The skies yet blushing with departing light, When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade, And the low sun had lengthen'd every shade.
WINTER; OR DAPHNE.
TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. TEMPEST.
THYRSIS! the music of that murmuring spring