ELEGY XXXII.

DAMON AND SYLVIA.

Ан

me! that restless bliss so soon should flie!
Still as I think my yielding maid to gain,
And flatt'ring hope says all my joys are nigh,
Officious jealousy renews my pain.

When cold suspense and torturing despair,

When pausing doubt, and anxious fear's no

more,

Some idle falshood haunts my list'ning ear,

And wakes my heart to all it felt before.

10

One treads the mazes of the puzzled dance
With easy step, and unaffected air,
False rapture feigns, or rolls a meaning glance,
To catch the open, easy-hearted fair.

Another boasts a more substantial claim,
For him fair Plenty fills her golden horn,
A thousand flocks support his haughty flame,
A thousand acres crown'd with waving corn.

But I nor tread the mazes of the dance
With easy step, and unaffected air,
Nor rapture feign, nor roll a meaning glance,
To catch the open, easy-hearted fair.

20

I boast not Fortune's more substantial claim,
For me nor Plenty fills her golden horn,
Nor wealthy flocks support my humble flame,
Nor smiling acres crown'd with waving corn.

Say, will thy gen'rous heart for these reject
A tender passion, and a soul sincere ?
For though with me you've little to expect,
Believe me, Sylvia, you have less to fear.

Come, let us tread the flow'ry paths of peace,
'Till Fate shall seal th' irrevocable doom; 30
Then soar together to yon realms of bliss,
And leave our mingled ashes in the tomb.

Perhaps some tender sympathetic breast,

Who knows with Sorrow's elegance to moan, May search the charnel where our relics rest,

And grave our mem'ry on the faithful stone.

"Tread soft, ye lovers, o'er this hallow'd ground: Here lies fond Damon by his Sylvia's side;

Their souls in life by mutual love were bound, Nor death the lasting union could divide."40

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ELEGY XXXIII.

ΤΟ

DAMON.

No longer hope, fond youth, to hide thy pain,
No longer blush the secret to impart;

Too well I know what broken murmurs mean,
And sighs that burst, half stifled, from the heart.

Nor did I learn this skill by Ovid's rule,
The magic arts are to thy friend unknown:

I never studied but in Myra's school,

And only judge thy passion by my own.

Believe me, Love is jealous of his power;
Confess betimes the influence of the God,
The stubborn feel new torments every hour;
To merit mercy we must kiss the rod.

In vain, alas! you seek the lonely grove,

And in sad numbers to the Thames complain; The shade with kindred softness sooths thy love, Sad numbers sooth, but cannot cure, thy pain.

When Phoebus felt (as story sings) the smart,

By the coy beauties of his Daphne fir'd,
Not Phoebus' self could profit by his art,
Tho' all the Nine the sacred lay inspir'd._to

Even should the maid vouchsafe to hear thy song,
No tender feelings will its sorrows raise ;
For verse hath mourn'd imagin'd woes so long,

She'll hear unmov'd, and, without pitying, praise.

Nor yet proud maid, shouldst thou refuse thine ear, Nor are the manners of the poet rude,

Nor pours he not the sympathetic tear,

His heart by anguish, not his own, subdued.

When fairest names in long oblivion rot,

(For fairest names must yield to wasting time) 30 The poet's mistress 'scapes the common lot,

And blooms uninjur'd in his living rhime.