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On a bank, beside a willow,
Heaven her covering, earth her pillow,

Sad Aminta sigh'd alone :
From the cheerless dawn of morning,
Till the dews of night returning,
Singing, thus she made her moan;

Hope is banish’d,

Joys are vanish’d,
Damon, my belov’d, is gone.

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;

Melting kisses,

Murmuring blisses,
Who so liv'd and lov'd as we ?

Never shall we curse the morning,
Never bless the night returning,

Sweet embraces to restore;
Never shall we both lie dying,

Nature failing, love supplying
; . All the joys he drain'd before ;

Death come end me

To befriend me;
Love and Damon are no more!

(Rowe.)

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,
And the loss of my charmer the fates have decreed,
Believe me, thou fair one, thou dear one, believe,
Few sighs to thy loss, and few tears will I give;
One fate to thy Colin and thee shall betide,
And soon lay thy shepherd down by thy cold side.
Then glide, gentle bronk, and to lose thyself haste,
Bear this to my willow; this verse is my last.

Ah willow! willow! Ah willow! willow!

[Collins.]

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids, and village hinds shall bring
Each op'ning sweet of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew;
But female fays shall haunt the green,

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.

[Dorser.]

When here Lucinda first we came,
Where Arno rolls his silver stream,
How blith the nymphs, the swains how gay,
Content inspir'd each rural lay.
The birds in livelier concert sung,
The grapes in thicker clusters hung,
All look'd as joy could never fail
Among the sweets of Arno's vale.

But now since good Palæmon died,
The chief of shepherds and the pride,
Old Arno's sons must all give place
To northern swains an iron race.
The taste of pleasure now is o'er,
Thy notes, Lueinda, please no more,
The Muses droop, the Goths prevail,
Adieu the sweets of Arno's vale.

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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.

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