The works of Alexander Pennecuik of New-Hall, M.D.; containing the description of Tweeddale, and miscellaneous poems. A new edition, with copious notes, forming a complete history of the county to the present time. To which are prefixed, memoirs of Dr Pennecuik, and a map of the shire of Peebles, or Tweeddale |
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A TRANSLATION OUT OF GUARINI's PASTOR FIDO,
O Mirtillo anima mia, &c.
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 | The works of Alexander Pennecuik |  |
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A TRANSLATION OUT OF GUARINI's PASTOR FIDO,
O Mirtillo anima mia, &c.
O Mirtil, best of shepherds, if thine eye
Could pierce my breast, and secret thoughts descry,
The heart you fancy there of flint to find,
Alas! is of the softest, easiest kind;
No more you would complain of fruitless love,
For mine, I'm sure, would more your pity move;
In both our breasts an equal flame doth burn,
Yet our unhappy loves we both must mourn.
By nature led, if on the sin we run,
And it's a virtue the dear charm to shun.
O, too imperfect nature, that gainstands,
That frets and champs the bit of law's commands!
O, too too rigorous law, that does control,
The secret inbred motions of the soul!
The savage kind, rang'd in the forest round,
Are by no charter but by nature bound;
The generous courser, with his dappled miss,
Do fear no dull constraint to stop their bliss.
All we can claim their privilege is above,
To know no other rules of love but love.
But why this idle reasoning, since it's clear,
She loves but little who to die does fear.
Mirtil, dear soul, how could I yield my breath,
For love of thee, alas! I fear not death!
Honour, thou greatest of all deities,
To whom each well-born soul must sacrifice,
My stock of love I on thy altar lay,
And freely all thy holy laws obey.
Pardon, dear shepherd, if no gentle beam
I grant of favour, but all icy seem;
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To cover the great feeble of my heart;
But if revenge you wish to ease your mind,
In your own grief a subject you may find.
For if thou'rt mine by such resistless flame,
As scarce the pow'rs that made can quench the same,
Your grief is mine, your groans, the brinny flood
Of tears you shed, is of my choicest blood,
Of sighs that rend your breast, the pains I feel,
More vive than those caus'd by the keenest steel.
| The works of Alexander Pennecuik | |