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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 Flow'rs 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 ev'ry blossom, wither ev'ry tree,

Die ev'ry 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 op'ning roses knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from ev'ry thorn.

Go, gentle Gales, and bear my sighs along!
The birds shall cease to tune their ev'ning song,
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And streams to murmur, ère I cease to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain,
Not balmy sleep to lab'rers faint with pain,
Not show'rs to larks, or 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.
Ye Pow'rs, 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's 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, less'ning as they rise,
Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies;
While lab'ring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
In their loose traces from the field retreat;
While curling smoaks from village-tops are seen,
And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.
Resound, ye Hills, resound my mournful lay! 65
Beneath yon poplar oft we pass'd the day;
Oft on the rind I carv'd her am'rous 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 flow'ry plains; 86 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 tygers 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 th' 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 ev'ry shade.









THYRSIS! the music of that murm'ring spring
Is not so mournful as the strains you sing;
Nor rivers winding through the vales below,
So sweetly warble, or so smoothly flow.
Now sleeping flocks on their soft fleeces lie,
The moon, serene in glory, mounts the sky,
Whilst silent birds forget their tuneful lays,
Oh, sing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's praise!
Thyr. Behold the groves that shine with silver frost,
Their beauty wither'd, and their verdure lost.
Here shall I try the sweet Alexis' strain,
That call'd the list'ning Dryads to the plain!
Thames heard the numbers, as he flow'd along,
And bade his willows learn the moving song.



Lyc. So may kind rains their vital moisture yield, And swell the future harvest of the field. Begin; this charge the dying Daphne gave, And said, "Ye shepherds, sing around my grave!" Sing, while beside the shaded tomb I mourn,

And with fresh bays her rural shrine adorn.



Thyr. Ye gentle Muses, leave your crystal spring ; Let nymphs aud 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 useless grown, Inscribe a verse on this relenting stone: "Let nature change, let heav'n and earth deplore, "Fair Daphne's dead, and love is now no more!" 'Tis done; and Nature's various charms decay; See gloomy clouds obscure the cheerful day! Now hung with pearls the drooping trees appear, Their faded honours scatter'd on her bier. With her they flourish'd, and with her they die. See, where on earth the flow'ry glories lie, 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 shun the gliding flood, The silver swans her hapless fate bemoan,



In notes more sad than when they sing their own; 40 In hollow caves sweet Echo silent lies,

Silent, or only to her name replies;

Her name with pleasure once she taught the shore,
Now Daphne's dead, and pleasure is no more!
No grateful dews descend from ev'ning skies,
Nor morning odours from the flow'rs arise;
No rich perfumes refresh the fruitful field,
Nor fragrant herbs their native incense yield.
The balmy zephyrs, silent since her death,
Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath;



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