 | Original Poems |  |
IV.
Mourn, O You Muses! mourn, You Virgin Train!
Florinda's gone, the Pride of all the Plain:
Behold the Queen of Love, in mournful State,
Veil'd is her Face, and solemn is her Gait,
Her splendid Vestments all are laid aside,
And deep her Groans as when Adonis dy'd.
Her Band of Cupids weeping all around,
Their Bows and Quivers scatter'd on the Ground,
All chanting, sadly, in a mournful Strain,
Death's fatal Pow'r, and Beauty's short-liv'd Reign.
Florinda's gone, the Pride of all the Plain:
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Veil'd is her Face, and solemn is her Gait,
Her splendid Vestments all are laid aside,
And deep her Groans as when Adonis dy'd.
Her Band of Cupids weeping all around,
Their Bows and Quivers scatter'd on the Ground,
All chanting, sadly, in a mournful Strain,
Death's fatal Pow'r, and Beauty's short-liv'd Reign.
Beauty's the Sunshine of an April Day,
Which gilds the Plains, and makes all Nature gay;
But soon, alas! wide o'er the darken'd Skies,
The gathering Clouds and blust'ring Tempests rise,
Down pour the Rains, the rolling Torrents roar,
Lost is the Sun, and glads the Plains no more.
Which gilds the Plains, and makes all Nature gay;
But soon, alas! wide o'er the darken'd Skies,
The gathering Clouds and blust'ring Tempests rise,
Down pour the Rains, the rolling Torrents roar,
Lost is the Sun, and glads the Plains no more.
| Original Poems | |