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On a bank, beside a willow,
Sad Aminta sigh'd alone :
Hope is banish’d,
Joys are vanish’d,
Time, I dare thee to discover Such a youth, and such a lover, *Oh! so true, so kind was he ! Damon was the pride of nature, Charming in his every feature, Damon liv'd alone for me;
Never shall we curse the morning,
Sweet embraces to restore;
Nature failing, love supplying
Death come end me
To befriend me;
To the brook and the willow that heard him complain,
Ah willow! willow! Poor Colin went weeping, and told them his pain. Sweet stream, he cried, sadly I'll teach thee to flow, And the waters shall rise to the brink with my woe. All restless and painful my Celia now lies, And counts the sad moments of time as it flies : To the nymph, my heart's love, ye soft slumbers repair,' 3
[your care; Spread your downy wings o'er her, and make her Let me be left restless, mine eyes never close, So the sleep that I lose give my dear one repose. Sweet stream ! if you chance by her pillow to creep, Perhaps your soft murmurs may lull her to sleep.
But if I am doom'd to be wretched indeed,
Ah willow! willow! Ah willow! willow!
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids, and village hinds shall bring
And rifle all the breathing spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,
And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.
The red breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid, With hoary moss and gather'd flow'rs
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds and beating rain
In tempests shake the sylvan cell; Or ʼmidst the chase upon the plain
The tender thought on thee shall dwell.
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed ; Belov’d, till life can charm no more,
And mourn'd, till pity's self be dead.
When here Lucinda first we came,
But now since good Palæmon died,
W hen lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray, What charm can sooth her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye. To give repentance to her lover, . And wring his bosom, is—to die.