When he sings, may the nymphs of the town 125
Come trooping and listen the while;
Nay on him let not Phyllida frown;
But I cannot allow her to smile.

For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,
Might she ruin the peace of my
In ringlets he dresses his hair,

mind!

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And his crook is bestudded around; And his pipe: O may Phyllis beware Of a magic there is in the sound!

135

'T is his with mock passion to glow,
"T is 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 labour the strain,
With the notes of his charmer to vie;
How they vary their accents in vain,
Repine at her triumphs and die."

140

To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;

145

Then, suiting the wreath to his lays,

66

He throws it at Phyllis's feet.

"O Phyllis," he whispers, "more fair,

More sweet than the jessamine's flower! 150

What are pinks in a morn to compare?

What is eglantine after a shower r

"Then the lily no longer is white;

The rose is deprived 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 could envy the song,

Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.

Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,
So Phyllis the trophy despise;
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue:

Yet may she beware of his art,

Or sure I must envy the song.

IV. DISAPPOINTMENT.

160

165

Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay,

And take no more heed of my sheep:

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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 smiled-and I could not but love; She is faithless-and I am undone.

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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 than me.

Ah! Love every hope can inspire;

It banishes wisdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire

Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.

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She is faithless, and I am undone :

Ye that witness the woes I endure,

Let reason instruct you to shun

What it cannot instruct you to cure. Beware how you loiter in vain

Amid nymphs of a 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?

185

190

When I cannot endure to forget

195

The glance that undid my repose.

Yet time may diminish the pain;

The flower, and the shrub, and the tree,

Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,

200

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 shown to the sight,

But we are not to find them our own;
Fate never bestow'd such delight,

As I with my Phyllis had known.

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O ye woods, spread your branches apace,
To your deepest recesses I fly;

210

I would hide with the beasts of the chase;
I would vanish from every eye.

Yet my reed shall resound through the grove
With the same sad complaint it begun;
How she smiled-and I could not but love; 215
Was faithless-and I am undone ! SHENSTONE.

I WISH I WAS WHERE ANNA LIES.

I WISH I was where Anna lies;

For I am sick of lingering here;
And every hour Affection cries,
"Go and partake her humble bier."

I wish I could; for when she died,
I lost my all; and life has proved,
Since that sad hour, a dreary void,
A waste unlovely and unloved.

But who, when I am turn'd to clay,
Shall duly to her grave repair,
And pluck the ragged moss away,

And weeds, that have “no business there ?"

And who with pious hand shall bring

10

The flower she cherish'd, snowdrops cold,

And violets that unheeded spring,

15

To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould ?

And who, while Memory loves to dwell
Upon her name for ever dear,

Shall feel his heart with passion swell,
the bitter, bitter tear?

And pour

I did it; and, would fate allow,

Should visit still, should still deplore:
But health and strength have left me now,
And I, alas, can weep no more.

Take then, sweet maid, this simple strain,
The last I offer at thy shrine;

Thy grave must then undeck'd remain,
And all thy memory fade with mine.

E

And can thy soft persuasive look,

Thy voice, that might with music vie,

30

Thy air, that every gazer took,

Thy matchless eloquence of eye;
Thy spirits, frolicsome as good,
Thy courage, by no ills dismay'd,
Thy patience, by no wrongs subdued,
Thy gay good-humour, can they fade ?
Perhaps- -But sorrow dims my eye;
Cold turf, which I no more must view,
Dear name, which I no more must sigh,
A long, a last, a sad adieu.

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40

GIFFORD.

HOHENLINDEN.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly:

But Linden saw another sight,

When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

5

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,

Each horseman drew his battle-blade,

10

And furious every charger neigh'd,

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,

And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flash'd the red artillery.

15