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I priz'd every hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;
But now they are past, and I figh;

And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.

But why do I languish in vain?
Why wander thus penfively here ?
Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the fmiles of my
dear?
They tell me, my favourite maid,

The pride of that valley, is flown;
Alas! where with her I have ftray'd,

I could wander with pleasure, alone.

When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought-but it might not be so-
'Twas with pain that the faw me depart.
She gaz'd, as I flowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly difcern;
So fweetly fhe bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return.

The pilgrim that journeys all day,
To vifit fome far-diftant fhrine,
If he bear but a relique away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.

Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relique I bear,

And my folace whereever I go.

II. HOPE.

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My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to fleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white-over with sheep.
I feldom have met with a lofs,

Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all border'd with moss, Where the hare-bells and violets grow.

Not a pine in my grove is there feen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound:

Not a beeches more beautiful green,

But a fweet-briar entwines it around. Not my fields in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fifhes of gold.

One would think she might like to retire
To the bower I have labour'd to rear;
Not a fhrub that I heard her admire,

But I hafted and planted it there.
Oh how fudden the jeffamine ftrove
With the lilac to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love,

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From the plains, from the woodlands and groves,
What ftrains of wild melody flow!

How the nightingales warble their loves

From thickets of rofes that blow !

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And when her bright form fhall appear,
Each bird fhall harmoniously join
In a concert fo foft and fo clear,

As she may not be fond to resign.

I have found out a gift for my fair;

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear,

She will fay 'twas a barbarous deed.

For he ne'er could be true, the averr'd,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young:
And I lov'd her the more when I heard

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

I have heard her with fweetness unfold
How that pity was due to—a dove:
That it ever attended the bold,

And fhe call'd it the fifter of love.
But her words fuch a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever she say,
Methinks I fhould love her the more.

Can a bofom fo gentle remain

Unmov'd, when her Corydon fighs? Will a nymph that is fond of the plain, These plains and this valley despise? Dear regions of filence and fhade!

Soft fcenes of contentment and ease! Where I could have pleasingly stray'd, If aught, in her abfence, could please.

But

But where does my Phyllida ftray?

And where are her grots and her bow'rs?
Are the groves and the vallies as gay,
And the fhepherds as gentle as ours?
The groves may perhaps be as fair,
And the face of the vallies as fine,
The fwains may in manners compare,
But their love is not equal to mine.

III.

SOLICITUDE.

Why will you my paffion reprove?
Why term it a folly to grieve?
Ere I fhow you the charms of my love,
She is fairer than you can believe.

With her mien fhe enamours the brave:
With her wit fhe engages the free;
With her modefty pleases the grave;
She is ev'ry way pleafing to me.

O you that have been of her train,

Come and join in my amorous lays; I could lay down my life for the swain, That will fing but a fong in her praise. When he fings, may the nymphs of the town Come trooping, and liften the while; Nay on him let not Phyllida frown; -But I cannot allow her to fmile.

For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis to find,

O how, with one trivial glance,
Might fhe ruin the peace of my mind!

In ringlets he dreffes his hair,

And his crook is be-ftudded around; And his pipe-oh may Phyllis beware Of a magic there is in the found.

"Tis his with mock paffion to glow;
'Tis his in fmooth tales to unfold,
How her face is as bright as the fnow,
And her bofom, be fure, is as cold!
How the nightingales labour the ftrain,
With the notes of his charmer to vie;
How they vary their accents in vain,
Repine at her triumphs, and die.

To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
Then, fuiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phyllises feet.
O Phyllis, he whispers, more fair,

More sweet than the jeffamines flow'r!
What are pinks, in a morn, to compare?
What is eglantine, after a show'r ?

Then the lily no longer is white;

Then the rofe is depriv'd of its bloom; Then the violets die with defpight;

And the woodbines give up their perfume.

Thus glide the foft numbers along,

And he fancies no fhepherd his peer; -Yet I never fhould envy the fong, Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.

Let

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