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Faft by, a Naïd taught her stream to glide,
Which thro' the dale a winding channel wore ;
The whispring fedges wav'd along the fore.
Here oft, when Morn peep'd o'er the dusky hill;
Here oft when Eve bedew'd the misty vale;
And pour'd in strains like these his artlefs tale.
Ah! would he fay—and then a figh would heave :
Ah Cynthia! sweeter than the breath of morn,
Of thee bereft how shall I live forlorn?
Ah! what avails this sweetly folemn bow'r
That filent stream where dimpling eddies play ;
Where maple-tufts exclude the beam of day.
Robb’d of my love, for how can these delight,
Tho' lavish Spring her smiles around has cast !
Dims the sad eye and deadens every taste.
As droops the lilly at the blighting gale ;
Or * crimson-spotted cowslip of the mead, Whose tender stalk (alas ! their stalk fo frail)
Some hafty foot hath bruis'd with heedless tread :
As droops the woodbine, when some village hind
Hath felld the sapling elm it fondly bound; No more it gadding dances in the wind,
But trails its fading beauties on the ground:
So droops my soul, dear maid, downcast and fad,
For ever! ah! for ever torn from thee; Bereft of each sweet hope, which once it had,
When love, when treacherous love first smil'd on me.
Return bleft days, return ye laughing hours,
Which led me up the roseat steep of youth ; Which strew'd my simple path with vernal flow'rs,
And bade me court chaste Science and fair Truth.
Ye know, the curling breeze, or gilded fly
That idly wantons in the noon-tide air, Was not so free, was not so gay as I,
For ah ! I knew not then or love, or care.
On her left breast
Witness ye winged daughters of the year,
Ife'er a figh had learnt to heave my breaft If e'er my cheek was conscious of a tear,
'Till Cynthia came and rob'd my soul of reft !
O have you seen, bath'd in the morning dew,
The budding rose its infant bloom display ; When first its virgin tints unfold to view,
It shrinks and scarcely trusts the blaze of day.
So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came,
Youth's damas glow juft dawning on her cheek: I gaz'd, I figh’d, I caught the tender Aame,
Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with paffion, weak,
Yet not unpitied was my pain the while;
For oft beside yon sweet-briar in the dale, With many a blush, with many a melting smile,
She sate and listen’d to the plaintive tale.
Ah me! I fondly dreamt of pleasures rare,
Nor deem'd so sweet a face with scorn cou'd glow; How could you cruel then pronounce despair,
Chill the warm hope, and plant the thorn of woe ?
What tho' no treasures canker in
cheit, Nor crowds of suppliant vassals hail me lord ! What tho' my roof can boast no princely guest,
Nor surfeits lurk beneath my frugal board!
Yet should Content, that shuns the gilded bed,
With smiling Peace, and Virtue there forgot, And rose-lip'd Health, which haunts the straw-built shed,
With cherub Joy, frequent my little cot :
Led by chaste Love, the decent band should come,
O charmer would'st thou deign my roof to hare? Nor should the Muses scorn our fimple dome,
Or knit in mystic dance, the Graces fair.
The wood-land nymphs, and gentle fays, at eve
Forth from the dripping cave and moffy dell, Should round our hearth fantastic measures weave,
And shield from mischief by their guardian spell.
Come then bright maid, and quit the city throng,
She proud, alas! derides my lowly song,
Then Love begone, thy thriftless empire yield,
In youthful toils I'll lose the unmanly pain: With echoing horns I'll rouse the jocund field,
Urge the keen chace, and sweep along the plain.
Or all in fome lone moss-grown tow'r sublime
With midnight lamp I'll watch pale Cynthia round, Explore the choiceft rolls of ancient Time,
And heal with Wisdom's balm my hapless wound.
Or elfe I'll roam -Ah no! that figh profound,
Tells me that stubborn love disdains to yield; Nor Alight, nor Wisdom's balm can heal the wound,
Nor pain forsake me in the jocund field.
DIALOGUE to CHLORINDA.
By Mr. ALSOP.
EASE, Chlorinda, cease to chide me,
When my passion I relate :
Why shou'd love be pay'd with hate?
If the fruit of all my wishes
Must be, to be treated fo ;
do more than this is
C. Simple Strephon, cease complaining,
Talk no more of foolish love;
Think not all you say can move.