Juvenilia or, A collection of poems. Written between the ages of twelve and seventeen, by J. H. L. Hunt ... Fourth Edition |
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| II. |
PASTORAL II.
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| IV. |
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 | Juvenilia |  |
73
PASTORAL II.
[------ Tantus dolor urit aruantes. ]
Season, Summer.—Time, Noon.ADDRESSED TO MASTER F. H. PAPENDIECK.
------ Tantus dolor urit aruantes.
Ovid, Met. lib. iv. v. 278.
Ovid, Met. lib. iv. v. 278.
In Windsor groves, where cooling Zephyrs play,
And Thames smooth waters guide their chrystal way,
The gather'd Swains, with rural labour tir'd,
Sought the mild breezes, and the reed inspir'd;
While, where the oaks hang round their ample shade,
Their crooks neglected, and the flocks were laid.
Soft as they sung, along the verdant shore,
The feather'd songsters seem'd to charm no more;
All nature smil'd; gay sprung the blooming flow'rs,
And harmless Mirth led on the dancing hours.
And Thames smooth waters guide their chrystal way,
The gather'd Swains, with rural labour tir'd,
Sought the mild breezes, and the reed inspir'd;
While, where the oaks hang round their ample shade,
Their crooks neglected, and the flocks were laid.
Soft as they sung, along the verdant shore,
The feather'd songsters seem'd to charm no more;
All nature smil'd; gay sprung the blooming flow'rs,
And harmless Mirth led on the dancing hours.
Fred'rick, attend; hear one sad lay complain,
That to our friendship adds this length'ning chain;
How swains, tho' faithful as thyself, have mourn'd
Affection scorn'd, or friendship unreturn'd;
Hear all the griefs, and all the ills of love;
For thou can'st pity, and may chance approve.
That to our friendship adds this length'ning chain;
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Affection scorn'd, or friendship unreturn'd;
Hear all the griefs, and all the ills of love;
For thou can'st pity, and may chance approve.
Alone retir'd from this enliv'ning scene,
Palemon slowly pac'd the distant green;
Where, on his head, Sol pour'd his burning ray,
And in hot splendor, flam'd the cloudless day:
Loose, o'er his shoulders, fell his airy flute,
So lively once, but now so sadly mute;
O'er his blue eyes his flaxen tresses hung,
While mournful thus in gentle plaint he sung:—
Palemon slowly pac'd the distant green;
Where, on his head, Sol pour'd his burning ray,
And in hot splendor, flam'd the cloudless day:
Loose, o'er his shoulders, fell his airy flute,
So lively once, but now so sadly mute;
O'er his blue eyes his flaxen tresses hung,
While mournful thus in gentle plaint he sung:—
Ye radiant sun-beams, parching from above,
Ah fierce, indeed, but not so fierce as love;
Ye fields of azure sapphire, sparkling fair,
And ye, beneath, that Summer's verdure wear,
All Nature, listen to the piteous lay,
That longs, like you, yet sickens to be gay;
And, oh, if Grief should spoil the heart-felt verse,
Him pity most, who fails it to rehearse.
Ah fierce, indeed, but not so fierce as love;
Ye fields of azure sapphire, sparkling fair,
And ye, beneath, that Summer's verdure wear,
All Nature, listen to the piteous lay,
That longs, like you, yet sickens to be gay;
And, oh, if Grief should spoil the heart-felt verse,
Him pity most, who fails it to rehearse.
Ah! thinks my Rosalind, what restless pain,
Her faithless breast inflicts upon her swain;
While o'er the thirsty fields he seeks to trace
Some footstep printed on the trodden grass!
Fond, simple youth, when, joying in her love,
Thy Rosalinda sought the shady grove,
Where oft enraptur'd on the bank she stood,
As in the blushing stream my face I view'd;
And told me, bending o'er the gurgling wave,
Not morn herself such lovely blushes gave;
Why did I eager drink her perjur'd praise,
Why round her head enwreathe the grateful bays?
Yet cruel Love still wrings my wo-worn breast,
Nor laughing Summer brings Palemon rest!
Her faithless breast inflicts upon her swain;
While o'er the thirsty fields he seeks to trace
Some footstep printed on the trodden grass!
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Thy Rosalinda sought the shady grove,
Where oft enraptur'd on the bank she stood,
As in the blushing stream my face I view'd;
And told me, bending o'er the gurgling wave,
Not morn herself such lovely blushes gave;
Why did I eager drink her perjur'd praise,
Why round her head enwreathe the grateful bays?
Yet cruel Love still wrings my wo-worn breast,
Nor laughing Summer brings Palemon rest!
Come, view my cottage, that, on yonder hill,
Climbs o'er the hedge, and looks upon the rill;
O'er its smooth top the bow'ring elm survey,
That shades my windows from the scorching ray:
While creeping upwards on its cover'd side
The winding ivy mounts in verdant pride.
Around, like silver peeping from the grass,
Thame's subject stream directs its waves of glass;
Till spreading slowly as it onward moves,
It bounds below, and rushes to the groves.
Here will we love; and when the bright-eyed Morn
Wakes to new light and life the purpling Dawn,
Thy liquid voice in heav'nly notes shall rise
With my low flute, soft warbling to the skies;
Or if it please thee better, from the cotes,
Thy tender hand shall drive the udder'd goats:
While round the plain, where fresh'ning Zephyr breathes,
Thy careful swain the colour'd garland wreathes;
To deck thy bosom, or attentive spread
The rifled Summer on thy bashful head!
Climbs o'er the hedge, and looks upon the rill;
O'er its smooth top the bow'ring elm survey,
That shades my windows from the scorching ray:
While creeping upwards on its cover'd side
The winding ivy mounts in verdant pride.
Around, like silver peeping from the grass,
Thame's subject stream directs its waves of glass;
Till spreading slowly as it onward moves,
It bounds below, and rushes to the groves.
Here will we love; and when the bright-eyed Morn
Wakes to new light and life the purpling Dawn,
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With my low flute, soft warbling to the skies;
Or if it please thee better, from the cotes,
Thy tender hand shall drive the udder'd goats:
While round the plain, where fresh'ning Zephyr breathes,
Thy careful swain the colour'd garland wreathes;
To deck thy bosom, or attentive spread
The rifled Summer on thy bashful head!
The yelling lion pants the wolf to seize,
The wolf the kid, the kid the tender trees;
The sad Palemon, with enquiring eyes,
And eager haste, for Rosalinda flies;
Yet the fierce lion lives not in his breast,
No savage Hunger robs his soul of rest;
Love, gentle Love, the shepherd's anxious care,
Urges him on, and shews the promis'd fair;
Yet as I haste to clasp her in these arms,
Fled is her form, and all her glowing charms!
The wolf the kid, the kid the tender trees;
The sad Palemon, with enquiring eyes,
And eager haste, for Rosalinda flies;
Yet the fierce lion lives not in his breast,
No savage Hunger robs his soul of rest;
Love, gentle Love, the shepherd's anxious care,
Urges him on, and shews the promis'd fair;
Yet as I haste to clasp her in these arms,
Fled is her form, and all her glowing charms!
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And is it thus, malicious god, the youth
Is robb'd of all, that vow'd eternal truth?
That he, who spoils the flow'ry pride of Spring,
His votive garlands on thy shrine to bring;
That he, who sings thy praises all the year,
For Rosalinda clasps the shadowy air?
Is robb'd of all, that vow'd eternal truth?
That he, who spoils the flow'ry pride of Spring,
His votive garlands on thy shrine to bring;
That he, who sings thy praises all the year,
For Rosalinda clasps the shadowy air?
O'er distant fields no more my feet shall roam,
Nor sad Palemon leave his peaceful home.
This flute, which Mœris with his dying breath,
Gave as a pledge that Friendship lives in Death;
This flute no more shall unregarded hang,
With which so sweetly thro' the groves he sang;
To yon thick shade, lamenting, I'll retire,
And to soft plaints my mournful reed inspire!
Yet, why bright Phœbus fly! a livelier flame,
With cherish'd hate, exhausts my drooping frame.
Still, still I burn! ah, rather let me say,
Palemon's free when Rosalind's away:
Reflecting Reason blot the fatal word,
And to rough Love be smooth Content preferr'd.
But haste, Palemon; to yon shady green,
Where limpid Thame adorns the verdant scene,
Urge the quick step: for, on the margin gay,
The heedless flock in wild disorder play.
Farewel, ye plains, ye verdant lawns, adieu,
Ye fields of green, and ye of azure blue!
Farewel, false Rosalind; my beating breast
Denies me more; let tears declare the rest!
Nor sad Palemon leave his peaceful home.
This flute, which Mœris with his dying breath,
Gave as a pledge that Friendship lives in Death;
This flute no more shall unregarded hang,
With which so sweetly thro' the groves he sang;
To yon thick shade, lamenting, I'll retire,
And to soft plaints my mournful reed inspire!
Yet, why bright Phœbus fly! a livelier flame,
With cherish'd hate, exhausts my drooping frame.
Still, still I burn! ah, rather let me say,
Palemon's free when Rosalind's away:
Reflecting Reason blot the fatal word,
And to rough Love be smooth Content preferr'd.
But haste, Palemon; to yon shady green,
Where limpid Thame adorns the verdant scene,
78
The heedless flock in wild disorder play.
Farewel, ye plains, ye verdant lawns, adieu,
Ye fields of green, and ye of azure blue!
Farewel, false Rosalind; my beating breast
Denies me more; let tears declare the rest!
| Juvenilia | |