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At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, 'When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill,

And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove: 'T was thus by the cave of the mountain afar, 5

While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began; No more with himself or with nature at war,

He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. 6 Ah! why, all abandon'd to darkness and woe,

Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall? 10 For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow,

And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthral. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay; [mourn :

Mourn, sweetest complainer, Man calls thee to O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away:

Full quickly they pass—but they never return. 16 “Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,

The moon half extinguish'd her crescent displays : But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. 20 Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue

The path that conducts thee to splendour again: But man's faded glory what change shall renew!

Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain ( 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more: 25

I mourn, but ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;


Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save : 30 But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn!

O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave ! “'T was thus, by the glare of false science betray'd,

That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade,

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 36 "O pity, great Father of light! then I cried,

• Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee; Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride :

From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.' « And darkness and doubt are now flying away;

41 No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,45

And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are

And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb !"




Arbusta humilesque myricæ.



Ye shepherds ! so cheerful and gay,

Whose flocks never carelessly roam;
Should Corydon's happen to stray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.



Allow me to muse and to sigh,

Nor talk of the change that ye None once was so watchful as I;

- I have left my dear Phyllis behind.


Now I know what it is to have strove

With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire. Ah ! lead forth my flock in the morn,

And the damps of each evening repel : Alas ! I am faint and forlorn :

I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell.



Since Phyllis vouchsafed me a look,

I never once dreamt of my vine;
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,

If I knew of a kid that was mine.
I prized every hour that went by

Beyond all that had pleased me before; But now they are past, and I sigh ;

And I grieve that I prized them no more.


But why do I languish in vain ;

Why wander thus pensively here ? O why did I come from the plain, Where I fed on the smiles of


dear ? They tell me my favourite maid,

The pride of that valley, is flown; Alas ! where with her I have stray'd,

I could wander with pleasure alone.

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When forced the fair nymph to forgo,

What anguish I felt at my heart !


Yet I thought,—but it might not be s0,

'T was with pain that she saw me depart. She gazed, as I slowly withdrew;

My path I could hardly discern; So sweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return.


The pilgrim that journeys all day

To visit some far-distant shrine, If he bear but a relic away,

Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely removed from the fair,

Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft Hope is the relic I bear,

solace wherever I go.



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My banks they are furnish'd with bees,

Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees,

my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all border'd with moss,

Where the harebells and violets grow.

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Not a pine in my grove is there seen,

But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a sweet briar entwines it around. Not my

fields in the prime of the year More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear,

But it glitters with fishes of gold.


One would think she might like to retire

To the bower I have labour'd to rear; Not a shrub that I heard her admire,

But I hasted and planted it there. O how sudden the jessamine strove

With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love,

To prune the wild branches away.


From the plains, from the woodlands and groves,

What strains of wild melody flow! How the nightingales warble their loves 75

From thickets of roses that blow! And when her bright form shall appear,

Each bird shall harmoniously join In a concert so soft and so clear,

As—she may not be fond to resign. 80

I have found out a gift for my

fair; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear,

She will say 't was a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, she averr’d, 85

Who would rob a poor bird of its young: And I loved her the more, when I heard

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.


I have heard her with sweetness unfold

How that pity was due—to a dove; That it ever attended the bold,

And she call'd it the sister of love. But her words such a pleasure convey,

So much I her accents adore,

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