Love in fantastic triumph sat,
Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow'd, For whom fresh pains he did create, And strange tyrannic power he shew'd.
From thy bright eyes he took his fire,
Which round about in sport he hurl'd;
But 'twas from mine he took desire
Enough to undo the amorous world.
From me he took his sighs and tears;
From thee his pride and cruelty;
From me his languishments and fears;
And every killing dart from thee!
Thus thou and I the god have arm'd,
And set him up a deity:
But my poor heart alone is harm'd,
Whilst thine the victor is, and free.
Damon, I cannot blame your will,
'Twas chance and not design did kill;
For whilst you did prepare your charms,
On purpose Silvia to subdue,
I met the arrows as they flew,
And saved her from their harms.
Alas! she cannot make returns,
Who for a swain already burns,
A shepherd whom she does caress
With all the softest marks of love;
And 'tis in vain thou seek'st to move The cruel shepherdess.
Content thee with this victory,
Think me as fair and young as she,—
I'll make thee garlands all the day,
And in the groves we'll sit and sing; I'll crown thee with the pride of spring When thou art lord of May.
The grove was gloomy all around,
Murmuring the stream did pass;
Where fond Astrea laid her down
Upon a bed of grass.
I slept and saw a piteous sight,
Cupid all weeping lay,
Till both his little stars of light
Had wept themselves away.
Methought I ask'd him why he cry'd,
My pity led me on;—
All sighing the sad boy replied,
Alas! I am undone !
As I beneath yon myrtle lay,
Down by Diana's springs, Amyntas stole my bow away,
And pinion'd both my wings.
Alas! cried I, 'twas then thy darts
Wherewith he wounded me :
Thou mighty deity of hearts!
He stole his power from thee.
Revenge thee, if a god thou be,
Upon the amorous swain :
I'll set thy wings at liberty,
And thou shalt fly again.
And for this service on my part,
All I implore of thee,
Is that thou'lt wound Amyntas' heart,
And make him die for me.
His silken fetters I untied,
And the gay wings display'd,
Which gently fann'd, he mounts, and cry
Farewell fond easy maid.
At this I blush'd, and angry grew
I should the god believe;
And waking found my dream too true;
Alas! I was a slave!
Ah! what can mean that eager joy
Transports my heart when you appear?
Ah Strephon! you my thoughts employ
In all that's charming, all that's dear!
When you your pleasing stories tell,
A softness does invade each part,
And I with blushes own I feel
At your approach my blushes rise,
And I at once both wish and fear ;
My wounded soul mounts to my eyes,
As it would prattle stories there.
Take, take that heart that needs must go!
But shepherd see it kindly us'd:
For who such presents will bestow,
If this, alas! should be abus'd?
A Paraphrase on the Eleventh Ode of the First Book of Horace,
Dear Silvia let's no farther strive,
To know how long we have to live!
Let busy gownsmen search to know
Their fates above, while we
Contemplate beauty's greater power below,
Whose only smiles give immortality!
For who seeks fortune in a star,
Aims at a distance much too far,
She's more inconstant than they are.
What though this year must be our last,
Faster than time our joys let's haste,
Nor think of ills to come, nor past.
Give me but love and wine, I'll ne'er
Complain my destiny's severe.
Since life bears so uncertain date,
With pleasure we'll attend our fate,
And cheerfully go meet it at the gate.
The brave and witty know no fear nor sorrow,
Let us enjoy to day, we'll die to morrow!
From the "Voyage to the Isle of Love."
Her mourning languid eyes are rarely shown,
Unless to those afflicted like her own;
Her lone apartment all obscure as night,
Discover'd only by a glimmering light :
Weeping she sat, her face with grief dismay'd,
Which all its natural sweetness had decay'd;
Yet in despight of grief there does appear
The ruin'd monuments of what was fair,
E'er cruel love and grief had took possession there.
These made her old without the aid of years;
Worn out and faint with ling'ring hopes and fears,—
She seldom answers ought but with her tears.-
No train attends, she only is obey'd
By melancholy, that soft silent maid;
A maid that fits her humour every way,
With whom she passes all the tedious day;
No other object can her mind content,
She feeds and flatters all her languishment :
The noisy streams that from high mountains fall,
And water all the neighbouring flow'cy vale ;-
The murmurs of the rivulets that glide
Against the bending sedges on their side;
Of mournful birds the sad and tuneful notes,
The bleat of strag'ling lambs, and new-yean'd goats;
The distant pipe of some lone mountain swain,
Who to his injur'd passion fits his strain,
Is all the harmony her soul can entertain.
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