Abbildungen der Seite

To the grove or the garden he strays,

And pillages every sweet;
Then, saiting 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 the morn to compare?

What is eglantine after a shower?

“ Then the lily no longer is white;

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

And the woodbines 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 bis 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.


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 nymplı so complete would be soughi

By a swain more engaging than me.
Ab! love ev'ry 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

T'he 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 shown to the sight,

But we are not to find them our own; Fate never bestow'd such delight

As I with my Phyllis had known.

O ye woods, spread your branches apace!

To your deepest recesses I fly; I would hide with the beasts of the chace;

I would vanish from every eye. Yet my reed shall resound through 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!


THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;

Oh! give relief- and Heaven will bless your store.

These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,

These boary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,

Has been the channel to a stream of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rising ground,

With tempting aspect drew me from my road; For Plenty there a residence has found,

And Graudeur a magnificent abode:

Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine!

'Tis Heav'n has brought me to the state you see: And your condition may be soon like mine,

-The child of sorrow and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn, But, ah! oppression forc'd me from my cot,

My cattle dy'd and blighted was my corn.

My daughter- once the comfort of my age!

Lur'd by a villain from her native home, Is cast-abandon'd on the world's wide stage,

And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.

« ZurückWeiter »