Still in my breast one soft desire remains, And need I, Florio, name that wish to thee? While, cloy'd to find the scenes of life the same, I slept not long beneath yon rural bowers; And lo! my crook with flowers adorn'd I see : Has gentle DELIA bound my crook with flowers, And need I, Florio, name my hopes to thee? PERHAPS it is not love (said I) That melts my soul, when FLAVIA's nigh; The beauties of her polish'd mind, 'It is not love ;'-averse to bear Oh! when did wit so brightly shine с A PASTORAL BALLAD. IN FOUR PARTS. ABSENCE. YE shepherds so cheerful and gay, Oh! call the poor wanderers home. Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was so watchful as I ; I have left my dear Phillis 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 Phillis farewell ! Since Phillis vouchsaf'd me a look, I never once dreamt of my vine; Beyond all that had pleas'd me before; But now they are past, and I sigh; And I grieve that I priz'd them no more. But why do I languish in vain, Where I fed on the smiles of my dear? They tell me, my favourite maid, When forc'd the fair nymph to forego, My path I could hardly discern ; I thought that she bade me return. The pilgrim that journeys all day Is happy, nor heard to repine. And my solace wherever I go. HOPE. My banks they are furnish'd with bees, And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all border'd with moss, Where the hare-bells and violets grow. Not a pine in my grove is there seen, But a sweet-briar entwines it around: One would think, she might like to retire To prune the wild branches away. From the plains, from the woodlands, and groves, In a concert so soft and so clear, I have found out a gift for my fair, I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me that plunder forbear : She will say, 'twas a barbarous deed!' For he ne'er could be true, she aver'd, Who could rob a poor bird of its young; And I lov'd her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue. I have heard her with sweetness unfold And she call'd it the sister of Love. Can a bosom, so gentle, remain Soft scenes of contentment and ease! But where does my Phillida stray? And where are her grots and her bow'rs? Are the groves and the vallies as gay, And the shepherds as gentle as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair, And the face of the vallies as fine; The swains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mine. SOLICITUDE. WHY will you my passion reprove? |