Page images

The Naïads wept in every watery bow'r,
And Jove consented in a silent show'r.

Accept, O Garth! the muse's early lays, That adds this wreath of ivy to the bays; Hear what from love unpractis'd hearts endure, From love, the sole disease thou canst not cure. Ye shady beeches, and ye cooling streams, Defence from Phœbús', not from Cupid's beams, To you I mourn; nor to the deaf I sing, The woods shall answer, and their echo ring. The hills and rocks attend my doleful lay, Why art thou prouder and more hard than they?. The bleating sheep with my complaints agree, They parch'd with heat, and I inflam'd by thee. The sultry Sirius burns the thirsty plains, While in thy heart eternal winter reigns. Where stray ye, Muses! in what lawn or grove, While your Alexis pines in hopeless love? In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides, Or else where Cam his winding vales divides ? As in the crystal spring I view my face, Fresh rising blushes paint the watery glass; But since those graces please thy eyes no more, I shun the fountains which I sought before. Once I was skill'd in every herb that grew, And every plant that drinks the morning dew; Ah, wretched shepherd, what avails thy art, To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart!


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 pow'r
The captive bird that sings within thy bow'r!

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, And in one garland all their beauties join; Accept the wreath which you deserve alone, In whom all beauties are compris'd in one.

See what delights in silvan scenes appear!
Descending gods have found Elysium here.
In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray'd,
And chaste Diana haunts the forest-shade.
Come, lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours,
When swains from sheering seek their nightly bow'rs;
When weary reapers quit the sultry field,

And, crown'd with corn, their thanks to Ceres yield.
This harmless grove no lurking viper hides,
But in my breast the serpent Love abides.
Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew,
But your Alexis knows no sweets but you.
O deign to visit our forsaken seats,

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,
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.
O how I long with you to pass my days,
Invoke the Muses, and resound your praise !
Your praise the birds shall chant in every grove,
And winds shall waft it to the pow'rs above.
But would you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain,
The wondering forests soon should dance again;
The moving mountains hear the powerful call,
And headlong streams hang listening in their fall!
But see, the shepherds shun the noon-day heat,
The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat,

To closer shades the panting flocks remove;
Ye gods! and is there no relief for love!-
But soon the sun with milder rays descends
To the cool ocean, where his journey ends:
On me Love's fiercer flames for ever prey,
By night he scorches, as he burns by day.




To Mr. Wycherley.

ENEATH the shade a spreading beech displays,
Hylas and Ægon sung their rural lays;

This mourn'd a faithless, that an absent love,
And Delia's name and Doris' fill'd the grove.
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;
Ọ, skill'd in nature! see the hearts of swains,
Their artless passions, and their tender pains.
Now setting Phœbus shone serenely bright,
And fleecy clouds were streak'd with purple light;
When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan,
Taught rockstoweep, 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 fill 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 galės, and bear my sighs away!
Curs'd be the fields that cause my Delia's stay:
Fade every blossom, wither every tree,
Die every flow'r, and perish all but she.-
What have I said? Where'er my Delia flies,
Let spring attend, and sudden flow'rs 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,
Are half so charming as thy sight to me.

Go, gentle gales, and bears 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 pow'rs, what pleasing phrenzy 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: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:
While labouring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
In their loose traces from the field retreat:
While curling smokes from village-tops are seen,
And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournfullay!
Beneath yon poplar oft we pass'd the day:

Oft on the rind I carv'd her amorous vows,
While she with garlands hung the bending boughs:-
The garlands fade, the vows are worn away;
So dies her love, and so my hopes decay.
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,

Who lost my heart while I preserv'd my sheep!
Pan came, and ask'd, "What magic caus'd my smart,
Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart?"
What eyes but her's, alas, have pow'r to move!
And is there magic, but what dwells in love!

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains!
I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flowery plains;
From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove,
Forsake mankind, and all the world-but love!
I know thee, Love! on foreign mountains bred,
Wolves gave thee suck, and savage tigers fed;
Thou wert from Ætna's burning entrails torn,
Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born!
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.

« EelmineJätka »