 | Philomela |  |
95
A PASTORAL ELEGY.
Philomela.So, gentle Destinies, decide the Strife;
Ah! spare but Hers, and take my hated Life.
Daphne.
Cease, cease, dear Nymph, the Fates ordain not so.
Philomela.
The more ungentle they; but wilt Thou go?
Daphne.
I must; and wish my Epilogue were done,
That from this tiresome Stage I may be gone.
Philomela.
Ah me! dear Boy! this breaks my feeble Heart:
But find'st thou no Reluctancy to part?
96
Without the least Reluctance, all below,
Save Thee, dear Nymph, I willingly forego:
My Swain, my Mates, my Flocks and Garland too.
In those blest Shades, to which my Soul must flee,
More beauteous Nymphs, and kinder Shepherds be;
Who ne'er reflect on what they left behind,
Wrapt with the Joys they in Elysium find.
By Silver Streams, thro' blissful Shades they rove,
Their Pleasure to Eternity improve.
There all the smiling Year is cloath'd with Green;
No Autumn, but Eternal Spring is seen.
There the wing'd Choir in loud and artful Strains
Transmit their Echoes to the happy Plains:
And thither Strephon will my Soul pursue,
When He, like Me, has bid the World adieu.
There, if Her Innocence she still retain,
My Philomela I shall clasp again;
97
With a more God-like and Heroic Grace,
Thou shalt behold the matchless Theron's Face,
But now farewel, my latest Sands are run,
And Charon waits, impatient to be gone.
Farewel, poor Earth; from thy unhappy Shore
None ever launch'd more joyfully before.
Not Death's grim Looks affright me, tho' so near,
Alas! why should the Brave and Virtuous fear!
Philomela.
Alas! She's gone, my dear Companion's gone,
And left me in this desart World alone;
Unforc'd, Her beauteous Soul has took its Flight,
Serene, and Glitt'ring, to Eternal Light.
And left me in this desart World alone;
Unforc'd, Her beauteous Soul has took its Flight,
Serene, and Glitt'ring, to Eternal Light.
More blind than Love, or Chance, relentless Death,
Why didst thou stop my charming Daphne's Breath?
The best, the bravest, faithful Friend alive;
Fate cut my Thread, I'll not the loss survive.
Alas! Why rises the unwelcome Sun?
Nought now is worth our Sight, since Daphne's gone.
Go, smile on some blest Clime, where Thou'lt not see
A Loss so vast, nor Wretch so curst as me;
Whom Grief hath wrapt in so condens'd a Shade
As thy intruding Beams shall ne'er invade:
For, What avails thy Light, now Daphne's gone,
And left me weeping on the Shore alone?
Yet could the gentle Fair but see me mourn,
From that blest Place she would perhaps return.
But vain, alas! are my Complaints; she's gone,
And left me in this desart World alone.
Why didst thou stop my charming Daphne's Breath?
The best, the bravest, faithful Friend alive;
Fate cut my Thread, I'll not the loss survive.
98
Nought now is worth our Sight, since Daphne's gone.
Go, smile on some blest Clime, where Thou'lt not see
A Loss so vast, nor Wretch so curst as me;
Whom Grief hath wrapt in so condens'd a Shade
As thy intruding Beams shall ne'er invade:
For, What avails thy Light, now Daphne's gone,
And left me weeping on the Shore alone?
Yet could the gentle Fair but see me mourn,
From that blest Place she would perhaps return.
But vain, alas! are my Complaints; she's gone,
And left me in this desart World alone.
For ah! depriv'd, my dearer Life, of Thee,
The World is all a Hermitage to Me:
No more together shall we sit or walk,
No more of Pan, or of Elysium talk:
Ah! no, no more shall I the fleeting Day
In kind Endearments softly pass away:
No more the noblest Height of Friendship prove,
Now Daphne's gone, I know not who to love.
Mourn, all ye Groves and Streams, mourn ev'rything,
You'll hear, no more, the pretty Syren sing.
Tune, Shepherds, tune your Pipes to mournful Strains;
Alas! we've lost the Glory of the Plains.
Let ev'ry thing a sadder Look put on;
For Daphne's dead, the dear lov'd Nymph is gone.
The World is all a Hermitage to Me:
No more together shall we sit or walk,
No more of Pan, or of Elysium talk:
Ah! no, no more shall I the fleeting Day
In kind Endearments softly pass away:
No more the noblest Height of Friendship prove,
Now Daphne's gone, I know not who to love.
99
You'll hear, no more, the pretty Syren sing.
Tune, Shepherds, tune your Pipes to mournful Strains;
Alas! we've lost the Glory of the Plains.
Let ev'ry thing a sadder Look put on;
For Daphne's dead, the dear lov'd Nymph is gone.
| Philomela | |