The last humble boon that I crave Is to shade me with cypress and yew, And when she looks down on my grave Let her own that her shepherd was true. "Then to her new love let her go, And deck her in golden array, Be finest at every fine show, And frolic it all the long day: While COLIN, forgotten and gone, No more shall be heard of or seen, Unless when beneath the pale moon His ghost shall glide over the green." As on a summer's day In the greenwood shade I lay, As her fancy mov'd, Came walking forth that way. ROWE. And And as she passed by, With a scornful glance of her eye, "What a shame," quoth she, "For a swain must it be, Like a lazy loon for to lie! "And dost thou nothing heed What Pan our god has decreed; That a prize today Shall be given away To the sweetest shepherd's reed? "There's not a single swain Of all this fruitful plain, But with hopes and fears Now busily prepares The bonny boon to gain. "Shall another maiden shine In brighter array than thine? Tune thy pipe once again, "Alas! "Alas! my love," I cried, Is written in my heart, "To me thou art more gay In this homely russet gray, Than the nymphs of our green, Or the brightest queen of May. "What tho' my fortune frown, And deny thee a silken gown; Be content with this shade ROWE. To the brook and the willow that heard him complain, Ah willow! willow! Poor COLIN went weeping, and told them his pain. "Sweet stream," he cried, "sadly I'll teach thee to flow, And the waters shall rise to the brink with my woe. All All restless and painful my CELIA now lies, And counts the sad moments of time as it flies. To the nymph, my heart's love, ye soft slumbers, repair, So the sleep that I lose give my dear-one repose. And the loss of my charmer the fates have decreed, Ah willow! willow! Ah willow! willow !"* ROWE. This piece, written by the author on the occasion of the illness of the lady he afterwards married, has all the pathetic of real feeling, though under the garb of pastoral fiction. DAPHNIS DAPHNIS stood pensive in the shade, And sighs relieved his love-sick mind : Looks, sighs, and actions seem'd to say, "My CHLOE is unkind. "Why ring the woods with warbling throats? My CHLOE'S Voice that wakes my pains: As thus he melancholy stood, Dejected as the lonely dove, Sweet sounds broke gently through the wood. "I feel the sound; my heart-strings move: 'T was not the nightingale that sung; No, 'tis my CHLOE's sweeter tongue, Hark, hark! what says my love?" |