Poems by the Late Reverend Dr. Thomas Blacklock Together with an Essay on the Education of the Blind. To Which is Prefixed A New Account of the Life and Writings of the Author |
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The PLAINTIVE SHEPHERD.
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 | Poems by the Late Reverend Dr. Thomas Blacklock |  |
The PLAINTIVE SHEPHERD.
A PASTORAL ELEGY.
Eheu! quid volui misero mihi? floribus austrum
Perditus, et liquidis immisi fontibus apros.
Virg.
Perditus, et liquidis immisi fontibus apros.
Virg.
Colin, whose lays the shepherds all admire,
For Phoebe long consum'd with hopeless fire;
Nor durst his tongue the hidden smart convey,
Nor tears the torment of his soul betray:
But to the wildness of the woods he flies,
And vents his grief in unregarded sighs:
Ye conscious woods, who still the sound retain,
Repeat the tuneful sorrows of the swain.
For Phoebe long consum'd with hopeless fire;
Nor durst his tongue the hidden smart convey,
Nor tears the torment of his soul betray:
But to the wildness of the woods he flies,
And vents his grief in unregarded sighs:
Ye conscious woods, who still the sound retain,
Repeat the tuneful sorrows of the swain.
82
“And must I perish then, ah cruel maid!
To early fate, by love of thee, betray'd?
And can no tender art thy soul subdue,
Me, dying me, with milder eyes to view?
The flow'r that withers in its op'ning bloom,
Robb'd of its charming dyes, and sweet perfume;
The tender lamb that prematurely pines,
And life's untasted joys at once resigns;
For these thy tears in copious tributes flow,
For these thy bosom heaves with tender woe?
And canst thou then with tears their fate survey,
While, blasted by thy coldness, I decay?
To early fate, by love of thee, betray'd?
And can no tender art thy soul subdue,
Me, dying me, with milder eyes to view?
The flow'r that withers in its op'ning bloom,
Robb'd of its charming dyes, and sweet perfume;
The tender lamb that prematurely pines,
And life's untasted joys at once resigns;
For these thy tears in copious tributes flow,
For these thy bosom heaves with tender woe?
And canst thou then with tears their fate survey,
While, blasted by thy coldness, I decay?
And now the swains each to their cots are fled,
And not a warble echoes thro' the mead;
Now to their folds the panting flocks retreat;
Scorch'd with the summer noon's relentless heat:
From summer's heat the shades a refuge prove;
But what can shield my heart from fiercer love?
All-bounteous nature taught the fertile field,
For all our other ills a balm to yield;
But love, the sharpest pang the soul sustains,
Still cruel love incurable remains.
And not a warble echoes thro' the mead;
Now to their folds the panting flocks retreat;
Scorch'd with the summer noon's relentless heat:
From summer's heat the shades a refuge prove;
But what can shield my heart from fiercer love?
All-bounteous nature taught the fertile field,
For all our other ills a balm to yield;
But love, the sharpest pang the soul sustains,
Still cruel love incurable remains.
Yet, dear destroyer! yet my suff'rings hear:
By love's kind look, and pity's sacred tear,
By the strong griefs that in my bosom roll,
By all the native goodness of thy soul,
Regard my bloom declining to the grave,
And, like eternal Mercy, smile and save.
By love's kind look, and pity's sacred tear,
By the strong griefs that in my bosom roll,
By all the native goodness of thy soul,
Regard my bloom declining to the grave,
And, like eternal Mercy, smile and save.
83
What tho' no sounding names my race adorn,
Sustain'd by labour, and obscurely born;
With fairest flow'rs the humble vales are spread,
While endless tempests beat the mountain's head.
What tho' by fate no riches are my share;
Riches are parents of eternal care;
While, in the lowly hut and silent grove,
Content plays smiling with her sister love.
What tho' no native charms my person grace,
Nor beauty moulds my form, nor paints my face;
The sweetest fruit may often pall the taste,
While sloes and brambles yield a safe repast.
Sustain'd by labour, and obscurely born;
With fairest flow'rs the humble vales are spread,
While endless tempests beat the mountain's head.
What tho' by fate no riches are my share;
Riches are parents of eternal care;
While, in the lowly hut and silent grove,
Content plays smiling with her sister love.
What tho' no native charms my person grace,
Nor beauty moulds my form, nor paints my face;
The sweetest fruit may often pall the taste,
While sloes and brambles yield a safe repast.
Ah! prompt to hope, forbear thy fruitless strain;
Thy hopes are frantic, and thy lays are vain.
Say, can thy song appease the stormy deep,
Or lull th' impetuous hurricane asleep?
Thy numbers then her stedfast soul may move,
And change the purpose of determin'd love.
Thy hopes are frantic, and thy lays are vain.
Say, can thy song appease the stormy deep,
Or lull th' impetuous hurricane asleep?
Thy numbers then her stedfast soul may move,
And change the purpose of determin'd love.
Die, Colin, die, nor groan with grief opprest;
Another image triumphs in her breast;
Another soon shall call the fair his own,
And heav'n and fate seem pleas'd their vows to crown.
Another image triumphs in her breast;
Another soon shall call the fair his own,
And heav'n and fate seem pleas'd their vows to crown.
Arise, Menalcas, with the dawn arise;
For thee thy Phoebe looks with longing eyes;
For thee the shepherds, a delighted throng,
Wake the soft reed, and hymeneal song;
For thee the hasty virgins rob the spring,
And, wrought with care, the nuptial garland bring.
For thee thy Phoebe looks with longing eyes;
For thee the shepherds, a delighted throng,
Wake the soft reed, and hymeneal song;
84
And, wrought with care, the nuptial garland bring.
Arise, Menalcas, with the dawn arise;
Ev'n time for thee with double swiftness flies:
Hours urging hours, with all their speed retire,
To give thy soul whate'er it can desire.
Ev'n time for thee with double swiftness flies:
Hours urging hours, with all their speed retire,
To give thy soul whate'er it can desire.
Yet, when the priest prepares the rites divine,
And when her trembling hand is clasp'd in thine,
Let not thy heart too soon indulge its joys;
But think on him whom thy delight destroys!
Thee too he lov'd; to thee his simple heart,
With easy faith and fondness breath'd its smart:
So fools their flocks to sanguine wolves resign,
So trust the cunning fox to prune the vine.
Think thou behold'st him from some gaping wound
Effuse his soul, and stain with blood the ground:
Think, while to earth his pale remains they bear,
His friends with shrieking sorrow pierce thine ear:
Or, to some torrent's headlong rage a prey,
Think thou behold'st him floating to the sea.
And when her trembling hand is clasp'd in thine,
Let not thy heart too soon indulge its joys;
But think on him whom thy delight destroys!
Thee too he lov'd; to thee his simple heart,
With easy faith and fondness breath'd its smart:
So fools their flocks to sanguine wolves resign,
So trust the cunning fox to prune the vine.
Think thou behold'st him from some gaping wound
Effuse his soul, and stain with blood the ground:
Think, while to earth his pale remains they bear,
His friends with shrieking sorrow pierce thine ear:
Or, to some torrent's headlong rage a prey,
Think thou behold'st him floating to the sea.
But now the sun declines his radiant head,
And rising hills project a length'ning shade:
Again to browze the green the flocks return,
Again the swains to sport, and I to mourn:
I homeward too must bend my painful way,
Left old Damoetas sternly chide my stay.
And rising hills project a length'ning shade:
Again to browze the green the flocks return,
Again the swains to sport, and I to mourn:
I homeward too must bend my painful way,
Left old Damoetas sternly chide my stay.
| Poems by the Late Reverend Dr. Thomas Blacklock | |