ODE VIII.
To
Philomel
.
I
As lovesick Damon lay along
Beneath a melancholy Shade,
Sooth'd by the nightly Warbler's Song,
Thus the unhappy Shepherd said,
II
Sweet Philomel, who haunt the Grove,
Where I lament my wretched Fate,
Our joint Complaint, alas! is Love,
The Diff'rence of our Fortune great.
III
Relief to me no Seasons bring,
For ever doom'd, to sigh in vain;
But you, sweet Bird, who mourn in Spring,
In Summer Pleasures lose your Pain.
IV
Already from yon bloomy Spray,
Your willing Mate your Plaint returns;
Already seems to chide your Stay,
And with an equal Ardour burns.
V
Go, Philomel, accomplish all
The Joy, that happy Love bestows;
Obey the tender Warbler's Call,
And leave poor Damon to his Woes.
VI
And when the next returning Year
Again invites you to the Grove;
Sweet Philomel, you'll find me here,
Complaining still of hopeless Love.