Alas! no more that joyous morn appears That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame; For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears, And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with shame.

"The vocal birds that raise their matin strain,
The sportive lambs, increase my pensive moan;
All seem to chase me from the cheerful plain,
And talk of truth and innocence alone.

"If through the garden's flowery tribes I stray, Where bloom the jasmines that could once allure, Hope not to find delight in us, they say,

For we are spotless, Jessy; we are pure.

"Ye flowers! that well reproach a nymph so frail; Say, could ye with my virgin fame compare? The brightest bud that scents the vernal gale

Was not so fragrant, and was not so fair.

"Now the grave old alarm the gentler young;

And all my fame's abhorr'd contagion flee : Trembles each lip, and falters every tongue,

That bids the morn propitious smile on me.

"Thus for your sake I shun each human eye; I bid the sweets of blooming youth adieu; To die I languish, but I dread to die,

Lest my sad fate should nourish pangs for you.

"Raise me from earth; the pains of want remove, And let me silent seek some friendly shore: There only, banish'd from the form I love,

My weeping virtue shall relapse no more.

"Be but my friend; I ask no dearer name;

Be such the meed of some more artful fair; Nor could it heal my peace, or chase my shame, That pity gave, what love refus'd to share.

Force not my tongue to ask its scanty bread; Nor hurl thy Jessy to the vulgar crew; Not such the parent's board at which I fed!

Not such the precept from his lips I drew!

"Haply, when Age has silver'd o'er my hair, Malice may learn to scorn so mean a spoil; Envy may slight a face no longer fair;

And pity, welcome, to my native soil.'

She spoke nor was I born of savage race;

Nor could these hands a niggard boon assign; Grateful she clasp'd me in a last embrace,

And vow'd to waste her life in prayers for mine.

"I saw her foot the lofty bark ascend;

I saw her breast with every passion heave; I left her-torn from every earthly friend;

Oh! my hard bosom, which could bear to leave!

"-Brief let me be; the fatal storm arose ;

The billows rag'd, the pilot's art was vain; O'er the tall mast the circling surges close;

My Jessy-floats upon the watery plain!

"And see my youth's impetuous fires decay; Seek not to stop Reflection's bitter tear; But warn the frolic, and instruct the gay, From Jessy floating on her watery bier!"

A PASTORAL BALLAD,

IN FOUR PARTS. 1743.

Arbusta humilesque myricæ.-Virg.

I. ABSENCE.

YE shepherds so cheerful and gay, Whose flocks never carelessly roam; Should Corydon's happen to stray,

Oh! call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to muse and to sigh,

Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was so watchful as I;

I have left my dear Phyllis behind. Now I know what it is, to have strove

With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire. Ah! lead forth my flock in the morn,

Can a bosom so gentle remain

Unmov'd when her Corydon sighs? Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,

These plains and this valley despise? Dear regions of silence and shade!

Soft scenes of contentment and ease? Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,

If aught, in her absence, could please. But where does my Phyllida stray?

And where are her grots and her bowers? Are the groves and the valleys as gay,

And the shepherds as gentle as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair,

And the face of the valleys as fine; The swains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mine.

III. SOLICITUDE.

WHY will you my passion reprove?
Why term it a folly to grieve?
Ere I show you the charms of my love,
She's fairer than you can believe.

With her mien she enamours the brave; With her wit she engages the free; With her modesty pleases the grave;

She is every way pleasing to me.

O you that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays;
I could lay down my life for the swain,
That will sing but a song in her praise.
When he sings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and listen the while;
Nay on him let not Phyllida frown;

-But I cannot allow her to smile.

For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favor with Phyllis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,

Might she ruin the peace of my mind! In ringlets he dresses his hair,

And his crook is bestudded around; And his pipe-oh my Phyllis, beware Of a magic there is in the sound.

"Tis his with mock passion to glow,

"Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, How her face is as bright as the snow, And her bosom, be sure, is as cold. How the nightingales labor the strain,

With the notes of his charmer to vie; How they vary their accents in vain,

Repine at her triumphs, and die.

To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;

Then, suiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
"O Phyllis," he whispers, "more fair,

More sweet than the jessamine's flower. What are pinks in a morn to compare? What is eglantine after a shower?

"Then the lily no longer is white;

The rose is depriv'd of its bloom; Then the violets die with despite,

And the wood bines give up their perfume Thus glide the soft numbers along,

And he fancies no shepherd his peer; -Yet I never should envy the song,

Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.

Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,

So Phyllis the trophy despise : Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd, So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes. The language that flows from the heart,

Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue; -Yet may she beware of his art, Or sure I must envy the song.

IV. DISAPPOINTMENT.

YE shepherds, give ear to my lay,

And take no more heed of my sheep; They have nothing to do but to stray;

I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove;

She was fair-and my passion begun; She smil'd-and I could not but love;

She is faithless-and I am undone.

Perhaps I was void of all thought:

Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
That a nymph so complete would be sought
By a swain more engaging than me.
Ah! love every hope can inspire;

It banishes wisdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.

She is faithless, and I am undone ;
Ye that witness the woes I endure,
Let reason instruct you to shun

What it cannot instruct you to cure.
Beware how you loiter in vain

Amid nymphs of a 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 flower, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, In time may have comfort for me.

Erewhile, in sportive circles round

She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound;
From rock to rock pursue his way,
And on the fearful margin play.

Pleas'd on his various freaks to dwell,
She saw him climb my rustic cell;
Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright,
And seem all ravish'd at the sight.

She tells with what defight he stood To trace his features in the flood; Then skipp'd aloof with quaint amaze, And then drew near again to gaze.

She tells me how with eager speed
He flew to hear my vocal reed;
And how with critic face profound,
And stedfast ear, devour'd the sound.

His every frolic, light as air,
Deserves the gentle Delia's care;
And tears bedew her tender eye,
To think the playful kid must die.-

But knows my Delia, timely wise, How soon this blameless era flies? While violence and craft succeed; Unfair design, and ruthless deed!

Soon would the vine his wounds deplore,
And yield her purple gifts no more;
Ah! soon, eras'd from every grove
Were Delia's name, and Strephon's love.

No more those bowers might Strephon see,
Where first he fondly gaz'd on thee,
No more those beds of flowerets find,
Which for thy charming brows he twin'd.

Each wayward passion soon would tear
His bosom, now so void of care;
And, when they left his ebbing vein,
What, but insipid age, remain?

Then mourn not the decrees of Fate, That gave his life so short a date; And I will join thy tenderest sighs, To think that youth so swiftly flies!