The Naiads wept in every watry bow'r, Accept, O Garth! the Muse's early lays, That adds this wreath of ivy to thy bays; Hear what from love unpractis'd hearts endure, From love, the sole disease thou canst not cure. Ye shady beeches, and ye cooling streams, Defence from Phœbus', not from Cupid's beams, To you I mourn; nor to the deaf I sing, The woods shall answer, and their echo ring. The hills and rocks attend my doleful lay, Why art thou prouder and more hard than they? The bleating sheep with my complaints agree, They parch'd with heat, and I inflam'd by thee. The sultry Sirius burns the thirsty plains, While in thy heart eternal winter reigns. Where stray ye, Muses! in what lawn or grove, While your Alexis pines in hopeless love? In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides, Or else where Cam his winding vales divides? As in the crystal spring I view my face, Fresh rising blushes paint the watry glass; But since those graces please thy eyes no more, I shun the fountains which I sought before. Once I was skill'd in every herb that grew, And every plant that drinks the morning dew; Ah, wretched shepherd, what avails thy art, To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart! Let other swains attend the rural care, Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces sheer : But nigh yon mountain let me tune my lays, Embrace my love, and bind my brows with bays. That flute is mine which Colin's tuneful breath Inspir'd when living, and bequeath'd in death; He said, 'Alexis, take this pipe, the same And yet my numbers please the rural throng, See what delights in silvan scenes appear! Descending gods have found Elysium here. In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray'd, And chaste Diana haunts the forest-shade. Come, lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours, When swains from sheering seek their nightly bow'rs; When weary reapers quit the sultry field, And, crown'd with corn, their thanks to Ceres yield. The mossy fountains, and the green retreats! Where'er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise, III. AUTUMN; OR HYLAS AND ÆGON. TO MR. WYCHERLEY. BENEATH the shade a spreading beech displays, This mourn'd a faithless, that an absent love, Thou, whom the Nine with Plautus' wit inspire, O, skill'd in nature! see the hearts of swains, Now setting Phoebus shone serenely bright, Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan. 'Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! To Delia's ear the tender notes convey. As some sad turtle his lost love deplores, And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores; Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn, Alike unheard, unpitied, and forlorn. Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along! 'Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! And liquid amber drop from every thorn. Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along! The birds shall cease to tune their evening song, The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move, And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love. Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain, Not balmy sleep to labourers faint with pain, Not showers to larks, or sunshine to the bee, Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay? Through rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds, Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds. Ye powers, what pleasing frenzy soothes my mind! Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind? She comes, my Delia comes !-Now cease my lay, And cease, ye gales, to bear my sighs away!' Next Egon sung, while Windsor-groves admir'dRehearse, ye Muses, what yourselves inspir'd. 'Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! Of perjur'd Doris, dying, I complain; Here where the mountains, lessening as they rise, 'Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! |