The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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THE SHEPHERD'S DESPAIR. |
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
133
THE SHEPHERD'S DESPAIR.
My Lucy was charming and fair,
Love shot all his shafts from her eyes:
So sweet, so commanding her air,
It could soften at once and surprise.
Such pity, such tenderness, play'd,
Serene in her face and her mind!
But the vision of hope is decay'd,
Though the shadows still linger behind.
Love shot all his shafts from her eyes:
So sweet, so commanding her air,
It could soften at once and surprise.
Such pity, such tenderness, play'd,
Serene in her face and her mind!
But the vision of hope is decay'd,
Though the shadows still linger behind.
My flute was melodious and soft,
The joy of the pastoral throng;
The linnet would join from aloft,
And Lucy embolden the song:
My cheeks which pale sorrow will fade,
Were the red rose and lily combin'd.
But the vision of hope is decay'd,
Though its shadows still linger behind.
The joy of the pastoral throng;
The linnet would join from aloft,
And Lucy embolden the song:
My cheeks which pale sorrow will fade,
Were the red rose and lily combin'd.
But the vision of hope is decay'd,
Though its shadows still linger behind.
Ah, fair as the blossoms of spring,
Ah! how could that bosom be cold?
More love lay in Corydon's ring,
More wealth than in Floridel's gold.
The dotard now wooes my dear maid,
Now feels every rapture refin'd:—
Yes: the vision of hope's quite decay'd,
Though the shadows still linger behind.
Ah! how could that bosom be cold?
More love lay in Corydon's ring,
More wealth than in Floridel's gold.
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Now feels every rapture refin'd:—
Yes: the vision of hope's quite decay'd,
Though the shadows still linger behind.
No more to my flocks will I sing,
No more tend the calls of the fold,
No more shall the glad valleys ring,
Since affection is barter'd for gold.
I will fly with Despair to the shade,
I will die on some rude rock reclin'd;
For the vision of hope is decay'd,
Though the shadows still linger behind.
No more tend the calls of the fold,
No more shall the glad valleys ring,
Since affection is barter'd for gold.
I will fly with Despair to the shade,
I will die on some rude rock reclin'd;
For the vision of hope is decay'd,
Though the shadows still linger behind.
| The Harp of Erin | |