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Ye flowers that droop, forsaken by the spring,
Go, gentle galės, and bear my sighs away!
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along! The birds shall cease to tune their evening song, The wiuds to breathe, the waving woods to move, And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love. Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain, Not balmy sleep to labourers faint with pain, Not showers to larks, or sunshine to the bee, Are half so charming as thy sight to me.
Go, gentle gales, and bears my sighs away! Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay? Through rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds, Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds. Ye pow'rs, what pleasing phrenzy soothes my mind I Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind? She comes, my Delia comes !-Now cease my lay, And cease, ye gales, to bear my sighs away!
Next Ægon sung, while Windsor-groves admir'da Rehearse, ye Muses, what yourselves inspir'd.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! Of perjur'd Doris, dying I complain : Here where the mountains, lessening as they rise, Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies : While labourmg oxen, spent with toil and heat, In their loose traces from the field retreat: While curling smokes from village-tops are seen, And the feet shades glide o'er the dusky green,
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournfullay! Beneath yon poplar oft we pass'd the day :
Oft on the rind I carv'd her amorous vows,
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! The shepherds cry, “Thy flocks are left a prey."Ab! what avails it me the flocks to keep, Who lost my heart while I preserv'd my sheep! Pan came, and ask'd, " What magic caus'd my smart, Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart ?" What eyes but her's, alas, have pow'r to move! And is there magic, but what dwells in love !
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains ! I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flowery plains; From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove, Forsake mankind, and all the world-but love! I know thee, Love ! on foreign mountains bred, Wolves gave thee suck, and savage tigers fed ; Thou wert from Ætna's burning entrails torn, Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born!
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! Farewell, ye woods; adieu the light of day! One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains, No more, ye hills, no more resound my strains !
Thus sung the shepherds till the’approach of night, The skies yet blushing with departing light, When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade, And the low sun had lengthen'd every shade.
To the Memory of Mrs. Tempest.
Is not so mournful as the strains you sing ;
Thyr. Behold thegroves that shine with siiver frost,
Lyc. So may kind rains their vital moisture yield, And swell the future harvest of the field. Begin : this charge the dying Daphne gave, And said, “ Ye shepherds, sing around my grave!
!” Sing, while beside the shaded tomb I mourn, And with fresh bays her rural shrine adorn.
Thyr. Ye gentle Muses, leave your crystal spring; Let nymphs and silvans cypress-garlands bring: Ye weeping loves, the stream with myrtles hide, And break your bows, as when Adonis died; And with your golden darts, now useless grown, Inscribe a verse on this relenting stone : • Let nature change, let Heav'n and earth deplore, Fair Daphne's dead, and love is now no more !"
'Tis done; and nature's various charms decay, See gloomy clouds obscure the cheerful day! Now hung with pearls the dropping trees appear, Their faded honours scatter'd on her bier.
See, where on earth the flowery glories lie,
For her the flocks refuse their verdant food,
No grateful dews descend from evening skies, Nor morning odours from the flowers arise ; No rich perfumes refresh the fruitful field, Nor fragrant herbs the native incense yield. The balmy zephyrs, silent since her death, Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath; The' industrious bees neglect their golden store: Fair Daphne's dead, and sweetness is no more!
No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings, Shall, listening in mid air, suspend their wings; No more the birds shall imitate her lays, Or, hush'd with wonder, hearken from the sprays; No more the streams their murmurs shall forbear, A sweeter music than their own to hear; But tell the reeds, and tell the vocal shore, Fair Daphine's dead, and music is no more!
Her fate is whisper'd by the gentle breeze, And told in sighs to all the trembling trees; The trembling trees, in every plain and wood, Her fate remurmur to the silver flood; The silver flood, so lately calm, appers Swell'd with new passion, and o'erflows with tears; The winds and trees and floods her death deplore, Daphne, our grief, our glory now no more!
But see! where Daphne wondering mounts on high Above the clouds, above the starry sky! Eternal beauties grace the shining scene, Fields ever fresh, and groves for ever green!
There while you rest in amaranthine bowers,
Lyc.How allthingslisten,whilethy Muse complains!
Thyr. But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews; Arise, the pines a noxious shade diffuse ? Sharp Borcas blows, and Nature feels decay, Time conquers all, and we must time obey. Adieu, ye vales, ye mountains, streams and groves; Adieu, ye shepherd's rural lays and loves ; Adieu, my flocks; farewell, ye silvan crew; Daphne, farewell; and all the world adieu !
THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARSON.
Are better than the bishop's blessing: