« EelmineJätka »
Beware how ye loiter in vain
Amid nymphs of an higher degree;
It is not for me to explain
How fair and how fickle they be.
Alas! from the day that we met
What hope of an end to my woes?
When I cannot endure to forget
The glance that undid my repose.
Yet time may diminish the pain:
The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree,
Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,
In time may have comfort for me.
The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,
The sound of a murmuring stream,
The peace which from solitude flows,
Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme.
High transports are shewn to the sight,
But we are not to find them our own;
Fate never bestow'd such delight
As I with my Phillis had known.
O ye woods, spread your branches apace,
To your deepest recesses I fly;
I would hide with the beasts of the chase,
I would vanish from every eye.
Yet my reed shall resound thro' the grove
With the same sad complaint it begun ;
How she smil'd, and I could not but love!
Was faithless, and I am undone!
tuneful bird, that gladd'st the skies, To Daphne's window speed thy way;
And there on quiv'ring pinions rise,
And there thy vocal art display.
And if she deign thy notes to hear,
And if she praise thy matin song,
'Tell her the sounds that soothe her ear
To Damon's native plains belong.
Tell her in livelier plumes array'd,
The bird from Indian groves may shine;
But ask the lovely partial maid,
What are his notes compar'd to thine?
Then bid her treat yon witless beau,
And all his flaunting race, with scorn,
And lend an ear to Damon's woe,
Who sings her praise, and sings forlorn.
Written about the Time of his Execution. OME listen to my mournful tale,
Ye tender hearts and lovers dear!
Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh,
Nor need you blush to shed a tear.
And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid,
Do thou a pensive ear incline;
For thou canst weep at ev'ry woe,
And pity ev'ry plaint-but mine.
Young Dawson was a gallant boy,
A brighter never trod the plain,
And well he lov'd one charming maid,
And dearly was he lov'd again.
One tender maid, she lov'd him dear;
Of gentle blood the damsel came;
And faultless was her beauteous form,
And spotless was her virgin fame.
But curse on party's hateful strife,
That led the favor'd youth astray,
The day the rebel clans appear'd;
O had he never seen that day!
Their colours and their sash he wore,
And in the fatal dress was found: And now he must that death endure
Which gives the brave the keenest wound.
How pale was then his true-love's cheek, When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! For never yet did Alpine snows
So pale or yet so chill appear.
With falt❜ring voice she, weeping, said, 'O Dawson, monarch of my heart; 'Think not thy death shall end our loves, For thou and I will never part.
'Yet might sweet mercy find a place,
'And bring relief to Jemmy's woes,
'O George, without a pray'r for thee
'My orisons should never close.
'The gracious prince that gave him life
'Would crown a never-dying flame,
And ev'ry tender babe I bore
'Should learn to lisp the giver's name.
'But tho' he should be dragg'd in scorn
To yonder ignominious tree,
'He shall not want one constant friend
To share the cruel fate's decree.'
O then her mourning coach was call'd;
The sledge mov'd slowly on before;
Tho' borne in a triumphal car,
She had not lov'd her fav'rite more.
She follow'd him, prepar'd to view
The terrible behests of law,
And the last scene of Jemmy's woes
With calm and stedfast eye she saw.
Distorted was that blooming face
Which she had fondly lov'd so long,
And stifled was that tuneful breath
Which in her praise had sweetly sung.
And sever'd was that beauteous neck,
Round which her arms had fondly clos'd;
And mangled was that beauteous breast,
On which her love-sick head repos'd.
And ravish'd was that constant heart
She did to ev'ry heart prefer;
For tho' it could its king forget,
"Twas true and loyal still to her.
Amid those unrelenting flames
She bore this constant heart to see;
But when 'twas moulder'd into dust,
Yet, yet, (she cry'd,) I follow thee.
My death, my death alone, can shew
The pure, the lasting love I bore:
'Accept, O Heaven! of woes like ours,
And let us, let us weep no more!'
The dismal scene was o'er and past,
The lover's mournful hearse retir'd;
The maid drew back her languid head,
And, sighing forth his name, expir'd.
Tho' justice ever must prevail,
The tear my Kitty sheds is due;
For seldom shall we hear a tale
So sad, so tender, yet so true.
Told my nymph, I told her true,
My fields were small, my flocks were few;
While falt'ring accents spoke my fear,
That Flavia might not prove sincere.
Of crops destroy'd by vernal cold,
And vagrant sheep that left my fold:
Of these she heard, yet bore to hear;
And is not Flavia then sincere ?
How chang'd by Fortune's fickle wind, The friends I lov'd became unkind: She heard and shed a gen'rous tear; And is not Flavia then sincere?
How, if she deign'd my love to bless,
My Flavia must not hope for dress:
This too she heard and smil'd to hear;
And Flavia, sure, must be sincere.
Go shear you flocks, ye jovial swains!
Go reap the plenty of your plains:
Despoil'd of all which you revere,
I know my Flavia's love sincere.