The hills and rocks attend my doleful lay, Where stray ye, Muses! in what lawn or grove, Let other swains attend the rural care, Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces sheer: But nigh yon mountain let me tune my lays, Embrace my love, and bind my brows with bays. That flute is mine which Colin's tuneful breath Inspir'd when living, and bequeath'd in death: He said, "Alexis, take this pipe, the same That taught the groves my Rosalinda's name." But now the reeds shall hang on yonder tree, For ever silent, since despis'd by thee. Oh! were I made by some transforming power The captive bird that sings within thy bower! Then might my voice thy listening ears employ, And I those kisses he receives enjoy. And yet my numbers please the rural throng, Rough satyrs dance, and Pan applauds 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 you their gifts are all bestow'd again. For you the swains the fairest flowers design, See what delights in sylvan scenes appear bowers; When weary reapers quit the sultry field, yield. This harmless grove no lurking viper hides, Where'er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise, III. AUTUMN; OR, HYLAS AND EGON. TO MR. WYCHERLEY. BENEATH the shade a spreading beech displays, This mourn'd a faithless, that an absent love, Ye Mantuan nymphs, your sacred succour bring, Hylas and Ægon's rural lays I sing. Thou, whom the nine with Plautus' wit inspire, The art of Terence, and Menander's fire; Whose sense instructs us, and whose humour charms, Whose judgment sways us, and whose spirit warms! O, skill'd in nature! see the hearts of swains, Their artless passions, and their tender pains. 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, 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, nor sunshine to the bee, Are half so charming as thy sight to me. 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. She comes, my Delia comes!-Now cease my lay, Rehearse, ye Muses, what yourselves inspir'd. Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! Of perjur'd Doris dying I complain : Here where the mountains, lessening as they rise, Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies: |