 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
291
A PASTORAL.
I reclined 'neath an oak, from the noon's fervid heat,
That shadows yon bright winding stream;
The high-soaring lark sang with ecstasy sweet,
As I thought on his lay for a theme:
That shadows yon bright winding stream;
The high-soaring lark sang with ecstasy sweet,
As I thought on his lay for a theme:
When Celia, a shepherdess artless and fair,
Came thither to water her sheep;
A wreath of coy lilies bound up her brown hair,
And a rose on her bosom did weep.
Came thither to water her sheep;
A wreath of coy lilies bound up her brown hair,
And a rose on her bosom did weep.
She bent o'er the brook with an aspect of grace,
And viewed her own image awhile;
A sweet, modest pride was expressed in her face,
And her lips were adorned with a smile.
And viewed her own image awhile;
A sweet, modest pride was expressed in her face,
And her lips were adorned with a smile.
Ye gods! with what wonder, and joy, and surprise,
Did I gaze on her angelic charms!
While the glances that shot from her beautiful eyes
Filled my breast with love's panting alarms.
Did I gaze on her angelic charms!
While the glances that shot from her beautiful eyes
Filled my breast with love's panting alarms.
Unheeded, the rose from her white bosom fell
(That bosom how madly admired!)
She gathered her lambkins, and (grievous to tell)
Took up her light crook and retired.
(That bosom how madly admired!)
She gathered her lambkins, and (grievous to tell)
Took up her light crook and retired.
292
With a feeling of rapture I gazed on the tide,
Which had borne to my feet the fresh flower;
I seized it. “Come, live in my bosom,” I cried,
“As an emblem of her I adore.”
Which had borne to my feet the fresh flower;
I seized it. “Come, live in my bosom,” I cried,
“As an emblem of her I adore.”
The sun thrice has risen, and gloriously thrown
A blush o'er the fair cheek of morn,
But still my fond heart, a poor captive, is lone,
By love and despair sorely torn.
A blush o'er the fair cheek of morn,
But still my fond heart, a poor captive, is lone,
By love and despair sorely torn.
The flower I possess is quite scentless and pale,
All its odours and beauties are fled;
It silently speaketh a sorrowful tale,
And my few tender hopes are now dead.
All its odours and beauties are fled;
It silently speaketh a sorrowful tale,
And my few tender hopes are now dead.
The rose was deprived of the bower where it smiled,
It languished, and went to decay;
So I without her who my soul has beguiled,
Must experience as transient a day.
It languished, and went to decay;
So I without her who my soul has beguiled,
Must experience as transient a day.
With my flock I will roam o'er these valleys and plains,
And if by kind fortune we meet,
By love she shall make me the happiest of swains,
Or behold me expire at her feet.
And if by kind fortune we meet,
By love she shall make me the happiest of swains,
Or behold me expire at her feet.
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |