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Then when my tedious hours are past

Be this last blessing given,
Low at thy feet to breathe my last,
And die in-sight of heaven.


ROM her, alas ! whose smile was love

I wander to some lonely cell :
My sighs too weak the maid to move,

I bid the flatterer Hope farewell.

Be all her syren arts forgot

That fill'd my bosom with alrrms : Ah! let her crime a little spot

Be lost amidst her blaze of charms.

As on I wander slow, my sighs

At every step for Cynthia mourn : My anxious heart within me dies,

And sinking, whispers, “Oh, return !"


Deluded heart! thy folly know,

Nor fondly nurse the fatal flame: By absence thou shalt lose thy woe, And only flutter at her name.


Go, tell AMYNTA, gentle swain,
I would not die, nor dare complain;
Thy tuneful voice with numbers join,
Thy voice will more prevail than mine :
For souls opprest, and dumb with grief,
The Gods ordain'd this kind relief,
That music should in sounds convey
What dying lovers dare not say.

A sigh, or tear, perhaps, she'll give,
But love on pity cannot live.
Tell her, that hearts for hearts were made,
And love with love is only paid.
Tell her, my pains so fast increase,
That soon they will be past redress ;
For, ah! the wretch that speechless lies
Attends but death to close his eyes,


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Yes, fairest proof of beauty's power,

Dear idol of my panting heart; Nature points this my fatal hour;

And I have lived; and we must part.

While now I take my last adieu,

Heave thou no sigh, nor shed a tear, Lest yet my half-closed eye may view

On earth an objact worth its care.

From jealousy's tormenting strife

For ever be thy bosom freed; That nothing may disturb thy life,

Content I hasten to the dead.

Yet when some better fated youth

Shall with his amorous parley move thee, Reflect one moment on his truth

Who dying thus persists to love thee.


On every hill, in every grove,

Along the margin of each stream,
Dear consciousscenes of former love,

I mourn, and Damon theme.
The hills, the groves, the streams remain,
But Damon there I seek in vain.

is my

Now to the mossy cave I fly,

Where to my swain I oft have sung, Well pleased the browsing goats to spy,

As o'er the airy steep they hang. The mossy cave, the goats remain, But Damon there I seek in vain.

Now through the winding vale I pass,

Apd sigh to see the well-known shade I weep, and kiss the bended grass

Where love and Damon fondly play'd, The vale, the shade, the grass, remain, But Damon there I seek in vain.


From hill, from dale, each charm is fled,

Groves, flocks, and fountains please no more, Each flower in pity droops its head,

All nature does my loss deplore. All, all reproach the faithless swain, Yet Damon still I seek in vain.


In vain you tell your parting lover
You wish fair winds may waft him over
Alas! what winds can bappy prove
That bear me far from what I love ?
Alas! what dangers on the main
Can equal those which I sustain
From slighted vows and cold disdain?

Be gentle, and in pity choose
To wish the wildest tempests loose ;
That, thrown again upon the coast
Where first my shipwreckt heart was lost,
I may once more repeat my pain,
Once more in dying notes complain
or slighted vows and cold disdain.

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