The lamb the flowery thyme devours,
The dam the tender kid pursues,
Sweet Philomel, in shady bowers
Of verdant spring her note renews;
All follow what they most admire,
As I pursue my soul's desire.
Nature must change her beauteous face,
And vary as the seasons rise;
As winter to the spring gives place,
Summer, th' approach of winter flies:
No change on love the seasons bring,
Love only knows perpetual spring.
Devouring Time, with stealing pace, Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow: And marble towers, and gates of brass, In his rude march he levels low; But Time, destroying far and wide, Love from the soul can ne'er divide.
Death only, with his cruel dart,
The gentle Godhead can remove; And drive him from the bleeding heart To mingle with the bless'd above, Where, known to all his kindred train, He finds a lasting rest from pain.
Love, and his sister fair, the soul,
Twin-born, from heaven together came:
Love will the universe control,
When dying seasons lose their name;
Divine abodes shall own his power,
When time and death shall be no more.
MY
Y sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook,
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook :
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove;
Ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love.
But what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta? why broke I my vow ?
Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide world secure me from love.
Ah, fool, to imagine that aught could subdue
A love so well founded, a passion so true!
Ah give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore,
And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more.
Alas! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine!
Poor shepherd, Amynta no more can be thine!
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain,
The moments neglected, return not again.
Ah! what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta? why broke I my vow?
y time, O ye Muses! was happily spent, When Phoebe went with me wherever I went: Ten thousand soft pleasures I felt in my breast; Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest! But now she is gone, and has left me behind, What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! When things were as fine as could possibly be, I thought 'twas the spring, but, alas! it was she.
With such a companion to tend a few sheep,
To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep;
I was so good-humour'd, so cheerful, and
My heart was as light as a feather all day.
* The lady here celebrated under the name of Phoebe, was Joanna, daughter of the great critic Bentley, and mother of Mr. Cumberland, the dramatic writer.
But now I so cross, and so peevish am grown,
So strangely uneasy as never was known;
My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd, And my heart-I am sure it weighs more than a pound.
The fountain that wont to run sweetly along,
And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among,
Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there,
"Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear;
But now she is absent, I walk by its side,
And still as it murmurs, do nothing but chide;
Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain?
Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me
complain.
When my lambkins around me would oftentimes
And when Phoebe and I were as joyful as they,
How pleasant their sporting, how happy the time,
When spring, love, and beauty were all in their prime!
But now in their frolics, when by me they pass,
I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass ;
Be still then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad,
To see you so merry, while I am so sad.
My dog I was ever well pleased to see,
Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me;
And Phoebe was pleas'd too, and to my dog said,
Come hither, poor fellow; and patted his head:
But now, when he's fawning, I, with a sour look, Cry, sirrah; and give him a blow with my crook : And I'll give him another, for why should not Tray Be dull as his master, when Phoebe's away.
When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen!
How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green!
What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade,
The corn fields and hedges, and every thing made!
But since she has left me, though all are still there,
They none of them now so delightful appear:
'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes
Made so many beautiful prospects arise.
Sweet music went with us both, all the wood through,
The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too;
Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat,
And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet :
But now she is absent, though, still they sing on,
The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone :
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found,
Gave every thing else its agreeable sound.
Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile ?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?
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