Hence, in thy front, and features, we admire Nature unwither'd, and a mind entire. Oh might so true a friend to me belong, So skill'd to grace the votaries of song, Should I recall hereafter into rhyme The kings, and heroes of my native clime, Arthur the chief, who even now prepares, In subterraneous being, future wars, With all his martial knights, to be restor❜d, Each to his seat, around the fed'ral board, And Oh, if spirit fail me not, disperse Our Saxon plund'rers, in triumphant verse! Then, after all, when with the past content, A life I finish, not in silence spent,
Should he, kind mourner, o'er my death-bed bend I shall but need to say-" Be yet my friend!" He, too, perhaps, shall bid the marble breathe To honour me, and with the graceful wreath Or of Parnassus, or the Paphian isle, Shall bind my brows-but I shall rest the while. Then also, if the fruits of Faith endure, And Virtue's promis'd recompense be sure, Born to those seats, to which the blest aspire By purity of soul, and virtuous fire, These rites, as Fate permits, I shall survey With eyes illumin'd by celestial day, And, ev'ry cloud from my pure spirit driv❜n, Joy in the bright beatitude of Heav'n!
Thyrsis and Damon, shepherds and neighbours, had always pursued the same studies, and had, from their earliest days, been united in the closest friendship. Thyrsis, while travelling for improvement, received intelligence of the death of Damon, and after a time, returning and finding it true, deplores himself, and his zolitary condition, in this poem.
By Damon is to be understood Charles Deodati, connected with the Italian city of Lucca by his father's side, in other respects an Englishman: a youth of uncommon genius, erudition, and virtue.
YE Nymphs of Himera (for ye have shed Erewhile for Daphnis, and for Hylas dead, And over Bion's long-lamented bier, The fruitless meed of many a sacred tear)
Now through the villas lav'd by Thames, rehearse
The woes of Thyrsis in Sicilian verse,
What sighs he heav'd, and how with groans profound He made the woods, and hollow rocks resound, Young Damon dead; nor even ceas'd to pour His lonely sorrows at the midnight hour.
The green wheat twice had nodded in the ear, And golden harvest twice enrich'd the year, · Since Damon's lips had gasp'd for vital air The last, last time, nor Thyrsis yet was there; For he, enamour'd of the Muse, remain'd In Tuscan Fiorenza long detain'd,
But, stor'd at lenghth with all, he wish'd to learn, For his flock's sake now hasted to return, And when the shepherd had resum❜d his seat At the elm's root, within his old retreat, Then 'twas his lot, then all his loss to know,
And, from his burthen'd heart, he vented thus his
"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts' are due
To other cares, than those of feeding you.
Alas! what deities shall I suppose
In heaven or earth, concern'd for human woes, Since, Oh my Damon! this severe decree So soon condemns me to regret of thee! Depart'st thou thus, thy virtues unrepaid With fame and honour, like a vulgar shade! Let him forbid it, whose bright rod controul, And sep'rates sordid from illustrious souls, Drive far the rabble, and to thee assign A happier lot, with spirits worthy thine !
"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts
To other cares, than those of feeding you. Whate'er befall, unless by cruel chance The wolf first give me a forbidden glance, Thou shalt not moulder undeplor'd, but long Thy praise shall dwell on ev'ry shepherd's tongue; To Daphnis first they shall delight to pay, And, after him, to thee the votive lay,
While Pales shall the flocks, and pastures, love, Or Faunus to frequent the field, er grove, At least, if antient piety, and truth, With all the learned labours of thy youth, May serve thee aught, or to have left behind A sorrowing friend, and of the tuneful kind.
“Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due
To other cares than those of feeding you. Yes, Damon! such thy sure reward shall be ; But ah, what doom awaits unhappy me? Who, now, my pains and perils shall divide, As thou was wont, for ever at my side,
Both when the rugged frost annoy'd our feet, And when the herbage all was parch'd with heat; Whether the grim wolf's ravage to prevent, Or the huge lion's, arm'd with darts we went?
Whose converse, now, shall calm my stormy day, With charming song, who now beguile my way?
"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due
To other cares, than those of feeding you. In whom shall I confide? Whose counsel find A balmy med'cine for my troubled mind? Or whose discourse, with innocent delight, Shall fill me now, and cheat the wint'ry night, While hisses on my hearth, the pulpy pear, And black'ning chesnuts start and crackle there, While storms abroad the dreary meadows whelm, And the wind thunders thro' the neighb'ring elm.
"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due
To other cares, than those of feeding you.
Or who, when summer suns their summit reach, And Pan sleeps hidden by the shelt'ring beech, When shepherds disappear, nymphs seek the sedge, And the stretch'd rustic snores beneath the hedge, Who then shall render me thy pleasant vein Of Attic wit, thy jests, thy smiles again?
"Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due
To other cares, than those of feeding you,
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