 | The poems (1925) |  |
108
THE SNOW-BALL
A Cantata
Recitative.
As Harriot, wanton as the sportive roe,Was pelting Strephon with the new-fall'n snow,
Th'enamour'd youth, who'd long in vain admir'd,
By ev'ry look and ev'ry gesture fir'd,
While round his head the harmless bullets fly,
Thus breathes his passion, prefac'd with a sigh:
Air.
Cease my charmer, I conjure thee,Oh! cease this pastime, too severe;
Though I burn, snow cannot cure me,
Fix'd is the flame that rages here.
Snow in thy hand its chillness loses,
Each flake converts to glowing fire;
Whilst thy cold breast all warmth refuses,
Thus I by contraries expire.
Recitative.
A humble distance thus to tell your pain!What should you meet but coldness and disdain?
Replied the laughing fair.—Observe the snow,
The sun retir'd, broods o'er the vale below;
But when approaching near he gilds the day,
It owns the genial flame and melts away.
109
Air.
Whining in this love-sick strain,Strephon, you will sigh in vain;
For your passion thus to prove,
Moves my pity, not my love.
Phœbus points you to the prize,
Take the hint, be timely wise,
Other arts perhaps may move,
And ripen pity into love.
| The poems (1925) | |