The Shamrock or, Hibernian Cresses. A Collection of Poems, Songs, Epigrams, &c. Latin as well as English, The Original Production of Ireland. To which are subjoined thoughts on the prevailing system of school education, respecting young ladies as well as gentlemen: with practical proposals for a reformation [by Samuel Whyte] |
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The GROTTO.
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 | The Shamrock |  |
471
The GROTTO.
Near a smooth River's lonely Side,
Where tuneful Naiads gently glide,
A secret Grotto stands;
Within a Rock's hard Bosom made,
Hid in the Gloom of awful Shade;
The Work of Nature's Hands.
Where tuneful Naiads gently glide,
A secret Grotto stands;
Within a Rock's hard Bosom made,
Hid in the Gloom of awful Shade;
The Work of Nature's Hands.
This sweet Retreat, that once had been,
Of Joy and Love, the chosen Scene,
Poor injur'd Flavia sought:
But,—to complain of Damon's Vow
There made, and broke;—she chose it now,
With Rage and Sorrow fraught.
Of Joy and Love, the chosen Scene,
Poor injur'd Flavia sought:
But,—to complain of Damon's Vow
There made, and broke;—she chose it now,
With Rage and Sorrow fraught.
The hollow Rock, where she reclin'd,
She thought, was like false Damon's Mind;
His dark Design,—the Shade:
The deep smooth Stream,—his tempting Face;
Its Sound,—his Tongue's deluding Grace,
That won, and that betray'd.
She thought, was like false Damon's Mind;
His dark Design,—the Shade:
The deep smooth Stream,—his tempting Face;
Its Sound,—his Tongue's deluding Grace,
That won, and that betray'd.
Damon, one Evening, as he stray'd,
To meet some other tender Maid,
O'er-heard her mournful Plaint:
Her Sighs, and Tears, and soft Despair,
Infected all the neighbouring Air,
And forc'd him to relent.
To meet some other tender Maid,
O'er-heard her mournful Plaint:
Her Sighs, and Tears, and soft Despair,
Infected all the neighbouring Air,
And forc'd him to relent.
472
And now, she thinks, since Damon's kind,
The steady Rock still like his Mind;
His Love, the friendly Shade:
The clear smooth Stream,—his lovely Face;
Its soothing Sound,—the Tongue's soft Grace,
That all her Woes repaid.
The steady Rock still like his Mind;
His Love, the friendly Shade:
The clear smooth Stream,—his lovely Face;
Its soothing Sound,—the Tongue's soft Grace,
That all her Woes repaid.
‘No more be fear'd, then, Fortune's Powers!
‘'Tis Fancy all our Bliss devours,
‘Or gives Content, we find.
‘Men may be happy, if they please;
‘We are ourselves, our own Disease;
‘The Fault is in the Mind.’
‘'Tis Fancy all our Bliss devours,
‘Or gives Content, we find.
‘Men may be happy, if they please;
‘We are ourselves, our own Disease;
‘The Fault is in the Mind.’
| The Shamrock | |