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Pleasure unalloy'd with pain,
Sense that shuns each conscious air,
A PASTORAL BALLAD.
IN FOUR PARTS.
Arbusta humilesque myricæ.
Whose flocks never carelessly roan,
O! call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to muse and to sigh,
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 ev’ning repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn :
--I have bade my dear Phillis farewell,
Since Phillis vouchsaf'd me a look,
I never once dream'd of my vine; May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine. I priz'd ev'ry hour that went by
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 ore.
But why do I languish in vain ?
Why wander thus pensively here? O! why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear? They tell me my favorite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown; Alas! where with her I have stray'd
I could wander with pleasure, alone.
What anguish I felt at my heart!
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart. She gaz'd as I slowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly discern; So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return. The pilgrim that journies all day
To visit some far distant shrine, If he bear but a relique away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine. Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe, Soft hope is the relique I bear,
And my solace wherever I go.
Y banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottos are shaded with trees,
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 with tendrils of woodbine is bound; Not a beech's more beautiful green,
But a sweetbriar 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 with fishes of gold.
One would think she might like to retire
To the bow'r I have labor'd to rear; Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
But I hasten'd and planted it there. - O how sudden the jassamine strove
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 the thickets of roses that blow ! And when her bright form shall appear,
Each bird, shall harmoniously join, In a concert so soft and so clear,
As-she may not be fond to resign.
I have found out a gift for my fair;
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let ine that plunder forbear,
She will say 'twas a barbarous deed : For he ne'er could be true, she averr'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
How that pity was due to a dove ; That it ever attended the bold,
And she call'd it the sister of Love.
So much I her accents adore,
Methinks I should love her the more.
Unmov'd when her Corydon sighs ! Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
These plains and this valley despise ? Dear regions of silence and shade!
Soft scenes of contentment and ease! Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,
If aught in her absence could please. 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.
III. SOLICITUDE. WAY will you my passion reprove?
Why term it a folly to grieve ? Ere I shew you the charms of my love,
She is fairer than you can believe.