Ye dear affociates of my breast, Whose hearts with fpeechlefs forrow fwell And thou with hoary age oppreft, 15 Dear author of my life, farewel! For me, alas! thy fruitless tears, Far, far remote from friends and home, Shall blaft thy venerable years, And bend thee pining to the tomb. Sharp are the pangs by nature felt, From dear relations torn away, While fhe, as angry heav'n and main And wantons with my deep despair. From curfed gold what ills arife! What horrors life's fair prospect stain ! Friends blaft their friends with angry eyes, And brothers bleed by brothers flain. From curfed gold I trace my woe; Could I this fplendid mischief boast, Nor would my tears unpitied flow, ́ 35 Nor would my fighs in air be loft. Ah! when a mother's cruel care Nurs'd me an infant on the breaft, Then had this breaft ne'er learn'd to beat, Nor had a maid's relentless hate, Been, ev'n in death, deplor'd in vain. Oft, in the pleafing toils of love, With ev'ry winning art I try'd To catch the coyly flutt'ring dove, With killing eyes, and plumy pride: But, far on nimble pinions borne 45 From love's warm gales and flow'ry plains, 50 She fought the northern climes of fcorn, Where ever-freezing winter reigns. Ah Ah me! had heav'n and she prov'd kind, Where first I breath'd this vital air! But, fince no flatt'ring hope remains, Let me my wretched lot pursue: Adieu, dear friends, and native scenes, To all, but grief and love, adieu ! 55 60 B SONG: To the Tune of the Braes of Ballandyne. I. ENEATH a green shade, a lovely young fwain One ev❜ning reclin'd, to discover his pain; So fad, yet so sweetly, he warbled his woe, The winds ceas'd to breathe, and the fountains to flow: Rude winds, with compaffion, could hear him com plain; Yet CHLOE, lefs gentle, was deaf to his ftrain. 5 II.. How happy, he cry'd, my moments once flew ! Now scenes of diftrefs please only my fight; III. 10 Through changes in vain relief I purfue; IV. But fee! the pale moon all clouded retires; Since length'ning its moments, but lengthens defpair? The The RAVISH'D SHEPHERD. A A SONG. I. ZURE dawn, whofe chearful ray Bids all nature's beauties rife, Were thy glories doubly gay, What art thou to CHLOE's eyes?" Boaft no more thy rofy light, If CHLOE fmile thee into night. II. Gentle Spring, whose kind return Bids each breast enamour'd burn, And each flame with blifs be crown'd; Should my CHLOE leave the plain, 10 III. |