How pleas'd within my native bow'rs
Erewhile I pass'd the day!
Was ever scene so deck'd with flow'rs?
Were ever flow'rs so gay?
How sweetly smil'd the hill, the vale,
And all the Landscape round!
The river gliding down the dale,
The hill with beeches crown'd!
But now, when urg'd by tender woes,
I speed to meet my dear,
That hill and stream my zeal oppose,
And check my fond career.
No more, since Daphne was my theme,
Their wonted charms I see;
That verdant hill and silver stream
Divide my love and me.
YE gentle nymphs and generous dames
That rule o'er every British mind!
Be sure ye soothe their am'rous flames,
Be sure your laws are not unkind:
For hard it is to wear their bloom
In unremitting sighs away,
To mourn the night's oppressive gloom,
And faintly bless the rising day.
And cruel 'twere a free-born swain,
A British youth, should vainly moan,
Who, scornful of a tyrant's chain,
Submits to yours and yours alone.
Nor pointed spear, nor links of steel,
Could e'er those gallant minds subdue,
Who beauty's wounds with pleasure feel,
And boast the fetters wrought by you.
Go, tuneful bird! that gladd'st the skies,
To Daphne's window speed thy way,
And there on quivering pinions rise,
And there thy vocal art display.
And if she deign thy notes to hear,
And if she praise thy matin song,
Tell her the sounds that soothe her ear
To Damon's native plains belong.
Tell her, in livelier plumes array'd,
The bird from Indian groves may shine;
But ask the lovely partial maid
What are his notes compar'd to thine?
Then bid her treat yon witless beau,
And all his flaunting race, with scorn;
And lend an ear to Damon's woe,
Who sings her praise, and sings forlorn.
Ah! ego non aliter tristes evincere morbos
Optarem, quam te sic quoque velle putem.
Why should I wish to banish sore disease,
Unless returning health my Delia please?
every tree, in every plain,
I trace the jovial spring in vain;
A sickly languor veils mine eyes,
And fast my waning vigour flies.
Nor flowery plain nor budding tree
That smile on others, smile on me;
Mine eyes from death shall court repose,
Nor shed a tear before they close.
What bliss to me can seasons bring;
Or what the needless pride of spring?
The cypress bough, that suits the bier,
Retains its verdure all the year.
'Tis true, my vine, so fresh and fair,
Might claim awhile my wonted care;
My rural store some pleasure yield,
So white a flock, so green a field!
My friends, that each in kindness vie,
Might well expect one parting sigh:
Might well demand one tender tear;
For when was Damon insincere?
But ere I ask once more to view
Yon setting sun his race renew,
Inform me, swains! my friends! declare,
Will pitying Delia join the prayer?
YES; Fulvia is like Venus fair,
Has all her bloom, and shape, and air;
But still, to perfect every grace,
She wants the smile upon her face.
The crown majestic Juno wore,
And Cynthia's brow the crescent bore, An helmet mark'd Minerva's mien,
But smiles distinguish'd Beauty's queen. Her train was form'd of Smiles and Loves, Her chariot drawn by gentlest doves: And from her zone the nymph may find 'Tis Beauty's province to be kind. Then smile, my fair! and all whose aim Aspires to paint the Cyprian dame, Or bid her breathe in living stone, Shall take their forms from you alone.
WHEN bright Roxana treads the green
In all the pride of dress and mien,
Averse to freedom, love, and play,
The dazzling rival of the day,
None other beauty strikes mine eye,
The lilies droop, the roses die.
But when, disclaiming art, the fair
Assumes a soft engaging air,
Mild as the opening morn of May,
Familiar, friendly, free, and gay,
The scene improves where'er she goes,
More sweetly smile the pink and rose.
O lovely maid! propitious hear,
Nor deem thy shepherd insincere ;
Pity a wild illusive flame,
That varies objects still the same,
And let their very changes prove
The never-varied force of love.
VALENTINE'S DAY, 1749.
"TIS said that under distant skies
(Nor you the fact deny)
What first attracts an Indian's eyes
Becomes his deity.
|