« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
Wur beauties does Flora disclose!
How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed! But Mary's, still sweeter than those,
Both nature and fancy exceed. No daisy nor sweet blushing rose,
Nor all the gay flowers of the field, Nor Tweed gliding gently thro' those,
Such bcauty and pleasure can yield.
The warblers are heard in each grove,
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush; The blackbird and sweet cooing dove
With music enchant every bush. Come let us go forth to the mead,
Let us see how the primroses spring ; We'll lodge in some village on Tweed,
And love while the feather'd folks sing.
How does my love pass the long day?
Does MARY not tend a few sheep?
Twocd's Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest,
Kind nature indulging my bliss, To relieve the soft pains of
breast I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.
'Tis she does the virgins excel,
No beauty with her can compare,
She's fairest where thousands are fair.
Oh! tell me at noon where they feed :
Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed ?
A PASTORAL BALLAD IN FOUR PARTS.
Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay,
Whose flocks never carelessly roam,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.
Nor talk of the change that ye find ;
None None once was so watchful as 1 :
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,
And the damps of each evening repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn :
I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell.
Since PHYLLIS vouchsafed me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine;
If I knew of a kid that was mine!
Beyond all that had pleased me before; But now they are past, and I sigh ;
And I grieve that I prized them no more.
But why do I languish in vain ?
Why wander thus pensively here?
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?
Alas! Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
I could wander with pleasure, alone.
When forced the fair nymph to forgo,
What anguish I felt at my heart ! Yet I thought, but it might not be so,
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart. She gazed, as I slowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly discern; So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me rețurn.
The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far distant shrine, If he bear but a relic away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
I seldom have met with a loss, * !!
Such health do my fountains bestow, My fountains all border'd with moss,
Where the harebells and violets grow.
Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound :. Not a beech's more beautiful green,
But a swect-brier entwines it around. Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold : Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters withi fishes of gold,
One would think she might like to retire
To the bower I have labour'd to rear; Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
But I hasted and planted it there. Oh how sudden the jessamine strore
With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love,
To prune the wild branches away.
From the plains, from the woodlands and groves,
What strains of wild melody flow! How the nightingales warble their loves From thickets of roses that blow!