 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
141
The Mournful Shepherdess.
A PASTORAL.
Since Death! whose Shafts, at Random, still destroy,
Has robb'd my Breast, of all its promis'd Joy,
Since Damon's Eyes are clos'd in endless Night,
And never more shall bless my ravish'd Sight;
Let me! on this green Turf, reclin'd, complain,
And feed with constant Sighs my pensive Pain.
Here, let my Eyes, with Tears incessant, flow,
And pay their Debt of everlasting Woe.
My Soul to Sorrow, here, I will subdue,
And make my Wounds, each Moment, bleed anew.
Has robb'd my Breast, of all its promis'd Joy,
Since Damon's Eyes are clos'd in endless Night,
And never more shall bless my ravish'd Sight;
Let me! on this green Turf, reclin'd, complain,
And feed with constant Sighs my pensive Pain.
Here, let my Eyes, with Tears incessant, flow,
And pay their Debt of everlasting Woe.
My Soul to Sorrow, here, I will subdue,
And make my Wounds, each Moment, bleed anew.
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O Damon! O! the Sun shall witness be,
With what a stedfast Grief I mourn for Thee:
Each Silver Star, that twinkles in the Sky,
Shall see me weep, each Grove shall hear me sigh.
My wearied Powers, in Sleep, if Nature bind,
Yet shall not sleep the Anguish of my Mind;
My throbbing Cares, shall faithful Dreams revive,
And keep each Image of Distress alive:
Yes! Damon, I will grieve myself to sleep,
But, as I sleeping lie, for Damon weep.
An Heart, with Troubles, sharp, as mine, opprest,
No Freedom finds from Pain, no Aid from Rest.
With what a stedfast Grief I mourn for Thee:
Each Silver Star, that twinkles in the Sky,
Shall see me weep, each Grove shall hear me sigh.
My wearied Powers, in Sleep, if Nature bind,
Yet shall not sleep the Anguish of my Mind;
My throbbing Cares, shall faithful Dreams revive,
And keep each Image of Distress alive:
Yes! Damon, I will grieve myself to sleep,
But, as I sleeping lie, for Damon weep.
An Heart, with Troubles, sharp, as mine, opprest,
No Freedom finds from Pain, no Aid from Rest.
Whilst thou didst live, new Joys still cheer'd my Heart,
Now thou art dead, it still afresh shall smart;
Unalter'd was thy Flame, and I will prove
My Sorrows constant, as my Shepherd's Love.
Now thou art dead, it still afresh shall smart;
Unalter'd was thy Flame, and I will prove
My Sorrows constant, as my Shepherd's Love.
143
Ye! Trees, your branching Arms, so wide that throw,
Ye! Groves, that give Solemnity to Woe!
Receive, within your melancholy Shade,
A most afflicted, once an happy Maid;
Your silent Gloom is to the Wretched kind,
And spreads a welcome Horror o'er the Mind;
Your dark Recesses, hid from human Sight,
Sooth the sick Heart, and to sad Thoughts invite.
Ye! Groves, that give Solemnity to Woe!
Receive, within your melancholy Shade,
A most afflicted, once an happy Maid;
Your silent Gloom is to the Wretched kind,
And spreads a welcome Horror o'er the Mind;
Your dark Recesses, hid from human Sight,
Sooth the sick Heart, and to sad Thoughts invite.
O! Damon, I no more, shall see thee smile;
No more, with Thee, in pleasing Talk beguile
The Live-long Day; nor hear thy rural Song,
And Voice, so wont to charm the listning Throng;
On thy kind Bosom I shall rest no more,
And act my little fond Endearments o'er;
No more upon thy lovely Eyes shall gaze,
And practise all my Female, winning Ways.
No more, with Thee, in pleasing Talk beguile
The Live-long Day; nor hear thy rural Song,
And Voice, so wont to charm the listning Throng;
On thy kind Bosom I shall rest no more,
And act my little fond Endearments o'er;
No more upon thy lovely Eyes shall gaze,
And practise all my Female, winning Ways.
Ceas'd are those Beauties, which my Soul admir'd,
Which the Swains envy'd, and the Nymphs desir'd;
The faithful Smile, the Soul sincere as Truth,
His Angel Form, and, Purple Bloom of Youth;
Those Charms, on which I doated, all, are fled,
All that is lovely, is with Damon dead!
Which the Swains envy'd, and the Nymphs desir'd;
144
His Angel Form, and, Purple Bloom of Youth;
Those Charms, on which I doated, all, are fled,
All that is lovely, is with Damon dead!
Th' impending Threats of Death, I might have fear'd,
From many Signs, if I had Signs rever'd;
Unmindful me! the Hare, that cross'd my Way,
Too plainly did presage this rueful Day;
And I a Thunder-stricken Oak did see,
But heeded not the ill fore-boding Tree;
Alas! unlucky Portents were not rare,
Nor Omens few, had Omens been my Care.
My heavy Heart proclaim'd Disasters nigh,
My Spirits droop'd and sank, I knew not why.
Methought! the mournful Lambs all lifeless stood,
Unmindful of their Sport, nor call'd for Food.
Still were the Groves, nor Chirp'd the feather'd Throng,
Nor did the Nightingal renew her Song;
Involv'd in Clouds and Horrors was the Night,
The conscious Moon withheld her chearful Light;
The Stars to shed their wonted Beams forbore;
A dreary, sullen Aspect Nature wore;
And when the affrighting Sound was heard, He Dies!
Heav'n wept, and pour'd down Rain from all its Eyes.
From many Signs, if I had Signs rever'd;
Unmindful me! the Hare, that cross'd my Way,
Too plainly did presage this rueful Day;
And I a Thunder-stricken Oak did see,
But heeded not the ill fore-boding Tree;
Alas! unlucky Portents were not rare,
Nor Omens few, had Omens been my Care.
My heavy Heart proclaim'd Disasters nigh,
My Spirits droop'd and sank, I knew not why.
Methought! the mournful Lambs all lifeless stood,
Unmindful of their Sport, nor call'd for Food.
Still were the Groves, nor Chirp'd the feather'd Throng,
Nor did the Nightingal renew her Song;
145
The conscious Moon withheld her chearful Light;
The Stars to shed their wonted Beams forbore;
A dreary, sullen Aspect Nature wore;
And when the affrighting Sound was heard, He Dies!
Heav'n wept, and pour'd down Rain from all its Eyes.
O! never will return the Golden Hours,
When Damon us'd to cull the choicest Flowers,
To deck my Bosom; or, with curious Care,
Did Garlands weave of Jess'min, for my Hair.
Or else, disclos'd some choice, some secret Nest;
Or brought me Garden-Fruits, a Rural Feast!
Or search'd me out among the Willow Green,
Hiding my self, but, wishing to be seen.
When Damon us'd to cull the choicest Flowers,
To deck my Bosom; or, with curious Care,
Did Garlands weave of Jess'min, for my Hair.
Or else, disclos'd some choice, some secret Nest;
Or brought me Garden-Fruits, a Rural Feast!
Or search'd me out among the Willow Green,
Hiding my self, but, wishing to be seen.
O! never shall those Golden Hours return!
Hopeless! I still must weep o'er Damon's Urn:
Yet, shall those Golden Hours record my Joy,
Pure, while it lasted, and without Alloy.
Record! a Passion, which no Limits knew,
A Passion! which to doating Fondness grew.
Hopeless! I still must weep o'er Damon's Urn:
Yet, shall those Golden Hours record my Joy,
Pure, while it lasted, and without Alloy.
146
A Passion! which to doating Fondness grew.
The Nymphs and Swains did, at our Bliss, repine
What Nymph, would not have chang'd her Fate for mine
The Nymphs and Swains to envy, all, were prone
What Swain, but wish'd my Damon's Fate his own
The Suns, with looking on, did weary prove;
But say, ye Gods! if I was tir'd with Love?
One Day pass'd by, and saw my faithful Flame,
Another rose, and it was still the same;
With downy Feet the Minutes danc'd away,
Each Day I saw my Love, and all the Day;
And every Day was, still, like that before,
So eager was I still to see him more!
What Nymph, would not have chang'd her Fate for mine
The Nymphs and Swains to envy, all, were prone
What Swain, but wish'd my Damon's Fate his own
The Suns, with looking on, did weary prove;
But say, ye Gods! if I was tir'd with Love?
One Day pass'd by, and saw my faithful Flame,
Another rose, and it was still the same;
With downy Feet the Minutes danc'd away,
Each Day I saw my Love, and all the Day;
And every Day was, still, like that before,
So eager was I still to see him more!
But! what do all my fond Complaints avail?
O! will not Life, at length, thro' Sorrow, fail?
Am I reserv'd, by Fate, in vain, to mourn,
And bear the Ills, that cannot, yet, be born?
Will not my stubborn Spirit yield, at length?
Nor bitter'st Pangs subdue my wasting Strength?
Ye Gracious Powers, O! listen to my Pray'r,
And take a Wretch, most wretched, to your Care!
In Pity, urge my Fate, inforce my Grief;
When Life is Sorrow, Death's a kind Relief!
O! will not Life, at length, thro' Sorrow, fail?
Am I reserv'd, by Fate, in vain, to mourn,
And bear the Ills, that cannot, yet, be born?
147
Nor bitter'st Pangs subdue my wasting Strength?
Ye Gracious Powers, O! listen to my Pray'r,
And take a Wretch, most wretched, to your Care!
In Pity, urge my Fate, inforce my Grief;
When Life is Sorrow, Death's a kind Relief!
| Poems on Several Occasions | |