Beware, how you loiter in vain
Amid nymphs of a higher degree:
It is not for me to explain
How fair, and how fickle they be.
Alas! from the day that we met,
What hope of an end to my woes.;
When I cannot endure to forget
The glance that undid my repose?
Yet time may diminish the pain:
The flower, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, In time may have comfort for me!
The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,
The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows, Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shown to the sight, But we are not to find them our own; Fate never bestow'd such delight,
As I with my Phillis had known.
O ye woods, spread your branches apace;
To your deepest recesses I fly;
I would hide with the beasts of the chase;
I would vanish from every eye!
Yet my reed shall resound through the grove
With the same sad complaint it begun;
How she smil'd, and I could not but love;
Was faithless, and I am undone !
THE LOVER AND THE FRIEND.
O THOU, for whom my lyre I string,
Of whom I speak, and think, and sing!
Thou constant object of my joys,
Whose sweetness every wish employs!
Thou dearest of thy sex attend,
And hear the Lover and the Friend.
Fear not the poet's flattering strain;
No idle praise my verse shall stain:
The lowly numbers shall impart
The faithful dictates of my heart;
Nor humble modesty offend,
And part the Lover from the Friend.
Not distant is the cruel day
That tears me from my hopes away:
Then frown not, Fairest! if I try
To steal the moisture from your eye;
Or force your heart a sigh to send;
To mourn the Lover and the Friend.
No perfect joy my life e'er knew,
But what arose from love and you;
Nor can I fear another pain
Than your unkindness or disdain;
Then let your looks their pity lend,
To cheer the Lover and the Friend.
Whole years I strove against the flame,
And suffer'd ills that want a name,
Yet still the painful secret keep,
And to myself in silence wept;
Till, grown unable to contend,
I own'd the Lover and the Friend!
I saw you still.-Your generous heart
In all my sorrows bore a part:
Yet, while your eyes with pity glow'd,
No words of hope your tongue bestow'd;
But, mildly, bid me cease to blend
The name of Lover with the Friend.
Sick with desire, and mad with pain,
I seek for happiness in vain :
Thou lovely maid! to thee I cry,
Heal me with kindness, or I die;
From sad despair my soul defend,
And fix the Lover and the Friend!
Curs'd be all wealth, that can destroy
My utmost hope of earthly joy!
Thy gifts, O fortune! I resign,
Let her and poverty be mine!
And every year that life shall lend,
Shall bless the Lover and the Friend.
In vain, Alas! in vain I strive
To keep a dying hope alive!
The last sad remedy remains;
"Tis absence that must heal my pains,
Thy image from my bosom rend,
And force the Lover from the Friend.
Vain thought! though seas between us roll,
Thy love is rooted in my soul;
The vital flood that warms my heart
With thy idea must depart;
And death's decisive stroke must end
At once, the Lover and the Friend!
THAT Jenny's my friend, my delight, and my pride,
I always have boasted, and seek not to hide.;
I dwell on her praises wherever I go,
They say I'm in love, but I answer "no, no.”
At evening, oft times, with what pleasure I see
A note from her hand, "I'll be with you at tea!”
My heart how it bounds, when I hear her below!
But say not 'tis love, for I answer "no, no."
She sings me a song, and I echo each strain,
"Again," I cry, "Jenny! sweet Jenny, again!”
I kiss her soft lips, as if there I could grow,
And fear I'm in love, though I answer "no, ne.”
She tells me her faults, as she sits on my knee;
I chide her, and swear she's an angel to me:
My shoulder she taps, and still bids me think so;
Who knows but she loves, though she tells me "
no, no!"
Yet such is my temper, so dull am I grown,
I ask not her heart, but would conquer my own:
Her bosom's soft peace shall I seek to o'erthrow,
And wish to persuade, while I answer "no, no!"
From beauty, and wit, and good humour, ah! why
Should prudence advise, and compel me to fly?
Thy bounties, O fortune! make haste to bestow,
And let me deserve her; or still I say, "no!"
AMID thy native mountains, Cambrian Fair!
Were some lone plant supported by thy care,
Sav'd from the blast, from winter's chilling powers,
In vernal suns, in vernal shades and showers,
By thee, reviving; did the favor'd tree
Exist, and blossom, and mature by thee;
To that selected plant did Heaven dispense,
With vegetable life, a nobler sense;
Would it not bless thy virtues? gentle Maid!
Would it not woo thy beauties to it's shade?
Bid all its buds in rich luxuriance shoot,
To crown thy summer with autumnal fruit;
Spread all its leaves, a pillow to thy rest;
Give all its flowers to languish on thy breast;
Reject the tendrils of the 'uxorious vine,
And stretch its longing arms-to circle thine!
Yes; in Creation's intellectual reign,
Where life, sense, reason, with progressive chain
Dividing, blending, form th' harmonious whole :
That plant am I, distinguish'd by a soul.
WHAT! bid me seek another Fair,
In untried paths of female wiles?
And posies weave of other hair,
And bask secure in other smiles?
Thy friendly stars no longer prize,
And light my course by other eyes?
Ah, no!-my dying lips shall close,
Unalter'd love, as faith, professing;
Nor, praising him who life bestows,
Forget who makes that gift a blessing!
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