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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 averrd,
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.
Why term it a folly to grieve?
She is fairer than you can believe.
With her mien she enamours the brave,
With her wit she engages the free, With her modesty pleases the grave;
She is ev'ry way pleasing to me.
Come and join in my amorous lays!
That will sing but a song in her praise. When he sings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and listen the while ; Nay, on him let not Phillida frown
-But I cannot allow her to smile.
For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favor with Phillis to find, O how with one trivial glance
Might she ruin the peace of my mind! In ringlets he dresses his hair,
And his crook is bestudded around; And his pipe-O! my Phillis, beware
Of a magic there is in the sound !
'Tis his with mock passion to glow;
'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold *How her face is as bright as the snow,
* And her bosom, be sure, is as cold: • How the nightingales labor the strain,
• With the notes of his charmer to vie ; • How they vary their accents in vain,
. Repine at her triumphs, and die.' To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet,
He throws it at Phillis's feet.
. More sweet than the jassamine's flow'r ! "What are pinks in a morn to compare ?
What is eglantine after a show'r?
Then the lily no longer is white,
* Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom, • Then the violets die with despite,
“And the woodbines give up their perfume.' Thus glide the soft numbers along,
And he fancies no shepherd his peer ; -Yet I never should envy the song,
Were not Phillis to lend it an ear.
So Phillis the trophy despise;
So they shine not in Phillis's eyes.
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue; -Yet may she beware of his art,
Or sure I must envy the song.
IV. DISAPPOINTMENT. Y shepherds, give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my sheep; They have nothing to do but to stray;
I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove ;
She was fair-and my passion begun; She smil'd-and I could not but love;
She is faithless-and I am undone. Perhaps I was void of all thought;
Perhaps it was plain to foresee, That a nymph so complete would be sought
By a swain more engaging thau me.
It banishes wisdom the while,
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.
Ye that witness the woes I endure,
Beware how ye loiter in vain
Amid nymphs of an higher degree; It is not for me to explain
How fair and how fickle they be.
Alas! from the day that we met
What hope of an end to my woes? When I cannot endure to forget
The glance that undid my repose. Yet time may diminish the pain :
The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,
In time may have comfort for me.
The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,
The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows,
Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shewn to the sight,
But we are not to find them our own ; Fate never bestow'd such delight
As I with my Phillis had known.
O ye woods, spread your branches apace,
To your deepest recesses I fly; I would hide with the beasts of the chase,
I would vanish from every eye. Yet my reed shall resound thro' the grove
With the same sad complaint it begun; How she smil'd, and I could not but love!
Was faithless, and I am undone!
THE SKYLARK. Go tuneful bird, that
gladd’st the skies
, To Daphne's window speed thy way; And there on quiv'ring pinions rise,
And there thy vocal art display.
And if she deign thy notes to hear,
And if she praise thy matin song,
To Damon's native plains belong.
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.
! Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh,
Nor need you blush to shed a tear. And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid,
Do thou a pensive ear incline; For thou canst weep at ev'ry woe,
And pity ev'ry plaint--but mine.
A brighter never trod the plain,
And dearly was he lov'd again.
Of gentle blood the damsel came;
And spotless was her virgin fame. But curse on party's hateful strife,
That led the favor'd youth astray, The day the rebel clans appear'd;
O had he never seen that day!