 | The Poems of Robert Fergusson |  |
PASTORAL II. NOON.
CORYDON. TIMANTHES.CORYDON.
The sun the summit of his orb hath gain'd,
No flecker'd clouds his azure path hath stain'd;
Our pregnant ewes around us cease to graze,
Stung with the keenness of his sultry rays;
The weary bullock from the yoke is led,
And youthful shepherds from the plains are fled
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Can dart its lustre through the leafy spray.
Yon cooling riv'let where the waters gleam,
Where springing flowers adorn the limpid stream,
Invites us where the drooping willow grows
To guide our flocks, and take a cool repose.
TIMANTHES.
To thy advice a grateful ear I'll lend,
The shades I'll court where slender osiers bend;
Our weanlings young shall crop the rising flower,
While we retire to yonder twining bower;
The woods shall echo back thy cheerful strains,
Admir'd by all our Caledonian swains.
CORYDON.
There have I oft with gentle Delia stray'd,
Amidst th'embowering solitary shade;
Before the gods to thwart my wishes strove,
By blasting every pleasing glimpse of love:
For Delia wanders o'er the Anglian plain,
Where civil discord and sedition reign.
There Scotia's sons in odious light appear,
Tho' we for them have wav'd the hostile spear:
For them my sire, enwrapp'd in curdled gore,
Breath'd his last moments on a foreign shore.
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Six lunar months, my friend, will soon expire,
And she return to crown your fond desire.
For her! O rack not your desponding mind!
In Delia's breast a gen'rous flame's confin'd,
That burns for Corydon, whose piping lay
Hath caus'd the tedious moments steal away:
Whose strains melodious mov'd the falling floods
To whisper Delia to the rising woods.
O! if your sighs could aid the floating gales,
That favourable swell her lofty sails;
Ne'er should your sobbs their rapid flights give o'er
Till Delia's presence grac'd our northern shore.
CORYDON.
Though Delia greet my love I sigh in vain,
Such joy unbounded can I ne'er obtain.
Her sire a thousand fleeces numbers o'er,
And grassy hills increase his milky store;
While the weak fences of a scanty fold
Will all my sheep and fattening lambkins hold.
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Ah, hapless youth! although the early muse
Painted her semblance on thy youthful brows;
Though she with laurels twin'd thy temples round,
And in thy ear distill'd the magic sound;
A cheerless poverty attends your woes,
Your song melodious unrewarded flows.
CORYDON.
Think not, Timanthes, that for wealth I pine,
Though all the fates to make me poor combine;
Tay bounding o'er his banks with awless sway,
Bore all my corns—all my flocks away.
Of Jove's dread precepts did I 'ere complain?
'Ere curse the rapid flood or dashing rain?
Ev'n now I sigh not for my former store,
But wish the gods had destin'd Delia poor.
TIMANTHES.
'Tis joy, my friend, to think I can repay
The loss you bore by autumn's rigid sway.
Yon fertile meadow where the daisies spring
Shall yearly pasture to your heifers bring:
Your flock with mine shall on yon mountain feed,
Cheer'd by the warbling of your tuneful reed:
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Against your hopes and ardent love conspire.
Rous'd by her smiles you'll tune the happy lay,
While hills responsive waft your songs away.
CORYDON.
May plenteous crops your irksome labour crown,
May hoodwink'd fortune cease her envious frown;
May riches still increase with growing years;
Your flocks be numerous as your silver hairs.
TIMANTHES.
But lo! the heats invite us at our ease
To court the twining shades and cooling breeze;
Our languid joints we'll peaceably recline,
And 'midst the flowers and opening blossoms dine.
| The Poems of Robert Fergusson | |