 | Original Poems |  |
I.
Mourn, O You Muses! mourn, You Virgin Train!Florinda's gone, the Pride of all the Plain:
Beauteous Florinda, whom the Shepherds sung,
Joy of each Heart, and Praise of every Tongue,
With whose dear Name the smiling Vallies rung.
Sigh to the Winds, and let the Winds reply,
Weep to the Streams, and raise their Waters high,
Complain to Eccho, and bid Eccho tell
The wond'ring Shores, why all their Rivers swell.
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With plaintive Moan, and loud Laments resound;
Those flowery Meads o'er which she trip'd along,
Those gladsom Groves which list'ned to her Song.
Bid them, no more stretch forth a verdant Shade,
Bid them, no more a flow'ry Carpet spread,
But bid them die:—for she in whom they joy'd is dead!
| Original Poems | |