To the Memory of MRS. TEMPEST.
HYRSIS, the mufic of that murmuring spring
Is not so mournful as the strains you fing.
Nor rivers winding through the vales below,
So sweetly warble, or so smoothly flow.
Now fleeping flocks on their soft fleeces lie,
The moon, serene in glory, mounts the sky,
While filent birds forget their tuneful lays,
O fing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's praife!
Behold the groves that shine with filver froft,
Their beauty wither'd, and their verdure lost.
Here shall I try the sweet Alexis' strain,
That call'd the listening Dryads to the plain?
Thames heard the numbers, as he flow'd along,
And bade his willows learn the moving fong.
So may kind rains their vital moisture yield, And swell the future harvest of the field.
Begin; this charge the dying Daphne gave,
And faid, "Ye shepherds, fing around my grave!"
Sing, while beside the shaded tomb I mourn,
And with fresh bays her rural shrine adorn.
Ye gentle Muses, leave your crystal spring,
Let Nymphs and Sylvans cypress garlands bring;
Ye weeping Loves, the stream with myrtles hide,
And break your bows as when Adonis dy'd;
And with your golden darts, now ufeless grown,
Inscribe a verse on this relenting stone:
"Let nature change, let heaven and earth deplore,
"Fair Daphne's dead, and Love is now no more!"
'Tis done, and nature's various charms decay:
See gloomy clouds obfcure the chearful day!
Now hung with pearls the dropping trees appear,
Their faded honours scatter'd on her bier.
See where, on earth, the flowery glories lie,
With her they flourish'd, and with her they die.
Ah, what avail the beauties nature wore?
Fair Daphne's dead, and Beauty is no more!
For her the flocks refuse their verdant food,
The thirsty heifers than the gliding flood,
The filver swans her hapless fate bemoan,
In notes more fad than when they fing their own; 40
In hollow caves sweet Echo filent lies,
Silent, or only to her name replies;
Ver. 29. Originally thus in the MS.
'Tis done, and nature's chang'd fince you are gone; Behold the clouds have "put their mourning on."
Her name with pleasure once she taught the shore,
Now Daphne's dead, and Pleasure is no more!
No grateful dews descend from evening skies,
Nor morning odours from the flowers arife;
No rich perfumes refresh the fruitful field,
Nor fragrant herbs their native incense yield.
The balmy Zephyrs, filent fince her death,
Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath;
Th' industrious bees neglect their golden store!
Fair Daphne's dead, and Sweetness is no more!
No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings,
Shall, listening in mid air, suspend their wings;
No more the birds shall imitate her lays,
Or, hush'd with wonder, hearken from the sprays :
No more the streams their murmurs shall forbear,
A fweeter music than their own to hear;
But tell the reeds, and tell the vocal shore,
Fair Daphne's dead, and Music is no more!
Her fate is whisper'd by the gentle breeze,
And told in fighs to all the trembling trees;
The trembling trees, in every plain and wood,
Her fate remurmur to the filver flood:
The filver flood, so lately calm, appears
Swell'd with new passion, and o'erflows with tears;
The winds and trees and floods her death deplore,
Daphne, our grief! our glory now no more!
But see! where Daphne wondering mounts on high Above the clouds, above the starry sky !
Eternal beauties grace the shining scene,
Fields ever fresh, and groves for ever green!
There while you rest in Amaranthine bowers,
Or from those meads select unfading flowers,
Behold us kindly, who your name implore,
Daphne, our Goddess, and our grief no more!
How all things listen, while thy Muse complains! Such filence waits on Philomela's strains, In some still evening, when the whispering breeze Pants on the leaves, and dies upon the trees. To thee, bright goddess, oft a lamb shall bleed, If teeming ewes increase my fleecy breed. While plants their shade, or flowers their odours give, Thy name, thy honour, and thy praise, shall live!
But fee, Orion sheds unwholesome dews; Arife, the pines a noxious shade diffuse; Sharp Boreas blows, and Nature feels decay,
Time conquers all, and we must Time obey.
Adieu, ye vales, ye mountains, streams, and groves,
Adieu, ye shepherds' rural lays and loves;
Adieu, my flocks; farewell, ye sylvan crew;
Daphne, farewell; and all the world adieu!
Ver. 83. Originally thus in the MS.
While vapours rise, and driving snows descend,
Thy honour, name, and praise, shall never end.
Ver. 89, &c.] These four last lines allude to the several subjects of the four Paftorals, and to the several scenes of them particularized before in each.
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