The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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Silvia in the Country.
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
Silvia in the Country.
As in that Region when the Glorious Sun
Does rise, that had for half a Year been gone,
All Nature smiles; and Joy in ev'ry Eye,
Welcoms his Re-ascension to the Sky!
But when he back to Southern Climes retires,
In vain their Furrs of Beasts and constant Fires;
The Beast himself for want of Warmth expires.
So, till you left us 'twas all Radiant Day,
But Night! perpetual Night now y'are away;
In vain we gaze, and fix our weary Eyes
Upon that Quarter where the Gleams shou'd rise,
No Sign of Light appears, no Glim'ring Dawn,
But all around the gloomy Curtain drawn.
But as the Sun, when from our Hemisphere
Declin'd, to distant Realms his Beams does bear;
So tho' remov'd from hence, you there are bright,
Lost to our Eyes, not lessen'd in your Light:
In ev'ry Breast you there like Ardor move,
Shine at full Blaze and give all Creatures Love!
Amaz'd and pleas'd with Joy your Voice they hear.
Thoughtless of us that mourn in Darkness here.
So smil'd the Chosen Seed when Egypt lay
In its long Night, and 'twas at Goshen Day.
Does rise, that had for half a Year been gone,
All Nature smiles; and Joy in ev'ry Eye,
Welcoms his Re-ascension to the Sky!
But when he back to Southern Climes retires,
In vain their Furrs of Beasts and constant Fires;
The Beast himself for want of Warmth expires.
So, till you left us 'twas all Radiant Day,
But Night! perpetual Night now y'are away;
50
Upon that Quarter where the Gleams shou'd rise,
No Sign of Light appears, no Glim'ring Dawn,
But all around the gloomy Curtain drawn.
But as the Sun, when from our Hemisphere
Declin'd, to distant Realms his Beams does bear;
So tho' remov'd from hence, you there are bright,
Lost to our Eyes, not lessen'd in your Light:
In ev'ry Breast you there like Ardor move,
Shine at full Blaze and give all Creatures Love!
Amaz'd and pleas'd with Joy your Voice they hear.
Thoughtless of us that mourn in Darkness here.
So smil'd the Chosen Seed when Egypt lay
In its long Night, and 'twas at Goshen Day.
Thus I her Absence mourn'd: When Love again
Appear'd, and wonder'd why I did complain.
Is she not there (he said) where best I know
To fix my Darts, and most my Pow'r can show?
In shady Groves, on Flow'ry Banks reclin'd,
With Garlands wreath'd, and fann'd with od'rous Wind,
The Lover oft a Blessing does receive,
Which Courts with all their Splendor ne'er cou'd give;
A Comfort that Remembrance can't destroy,
A Conscious Innocence, and Guiltless Joy!
Let it not grieve you that the Fair's retir'd,
'Tis only to be follow'd and admir'd:
Among the Rural Nymphs as there she lies,
She may be pleas'd, perhaps, to own her Prize,
To shew to them the Triumphs of her Eyes.
There she perhaps may Love's Reward dispence;
O Warmth of undissembl'd Innocence!
There Lips to Lips, with glowing Ardor join'd,
May introduce you to a Scene more kind;
When, Breathless, in your Arms the Fair expires,
And, Life returning, the same Death desires!
Wish her not then in this ill Town again,
The vast Exchange of all Things lewd and vain,
When she so much the happier Lot enjoys,
Free from those Ills which here my Power destroys,
Love's not conceiv'd, nor born, nor lives in Noise:
Eternal Jargon, Rattle, Storm and Fewd
Dwell here, and ev'ry Day the Din's renew'd.
There Innocence and Joy and Silence reign,
And spread their sacred Influence thro' the Plain:
There the Harmonious Quire in Copses sing
Their Airs Divine, and Prophesy of Spring:
Ev'n Nature smiles and yields 'em all that's rare,
At least she, sure must smile now Silvia's there.
Away then (Absence will not do the Thing)
Your Reason to the Swallow's Custom bring,
The Spring don't seek 'em but they seek the Spring.
Appear'd, and wonder'd why I did complain.
Is she not there (he said) where best I know
To fix my Darts, and most my Pow'r can show?
In shady Groves, on Flow'ry Banks reclin'd,
With Garlands wreath'd, and fann'd with od'rous Wind,
The Lover oft a Blessing does receive,
Which Courts with all their Splendor ne'er cou'd give;
A Comfort that Remembrance can't destroy,
A Conscious Innocence, and Guiltless Joy!
Let it not grieve you that the Fair's retir'd,
'Tis only to be follow'd and admir'd:
Among the Rural Nymphs as there she lies,
She may be pleas'd, perhaps, to own her Prize,
To shew to them the Triumphs of her Eyes.
There she perhaps may Love's Reward dispence;
O Warmth of undissembl'd Innocence!
There Lips to Lips, with glowing Ardor join'd,
May introduce you to a Scene more kind;
When, Breathless, in your Arms the Fair expires,
And, Life returning, the same Death desires!
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The vast Exchange of all Things lewd and vain,
When she so much the happier Lot enjoys,
Free from those Ills which here my Power destroys,
Love's not conceiv'd, nor born, nor lives in Noise:
Eternal Jargon, Rattle, Storm and Fewd
Dwell here, and ev'ry Day the Din's renew'd.
There Innocence and Joy and Silence reign,
And spread their sacred Influence thro' the Plain:
There the Harmonious Quire in Copses sing
Their Airs Divine, and Prophesy of Spring:
Ev'n Nature smiles and yields 'em all that's rare,
At least she, sure must smile now Silvia's there.
Away then (Absence will not do the Thing)
Your Reason to the Swallow's Custom bring,
The Spring don't seek 'em but they seek the Spring.
He ceas'd; and strait the Heav'nly Form withdrew.
Ah Silvia! what must poor Amyntor do?
Impatiently he thy lov'd Sight affects,
And Counsel's sacred when a God directs.
Blame me not then if I presume on those
Retirements which your Solitude has chose;
I must be happy where you find Repose.
There I will trace your Steps thro' ev'ry Grove,
And sigh, and wish, and look perpetual Love!
There I perhaps the happy Hour may find:
No Female ever yet was all her Life unkind.
Ah Silvia! what must poor Amyntor do?
Impatiently he thy lov'd Sight affects,
And Counsel's sacred when a God directs.
Blame me not then if I presume on those
Retirements which your Solitude has chose;
I must be happy where you find Repose.
There I will trace your Steps thro' ev'ry Grove,
And sigh, and wish, and look perpetual Love!
There I perhaps the happy Hour may find:
No Female ever yet was all her Life unkind.
Misled by Hope, and flatter'd by my Theme,
How far I stray? How idly do I dream?
While I discourse of Joys imagin'd there,
She's absent still, and I unhappy here.
How far I stray? How idly do I dream?
While I discourse of Joys imagin'd there,
She's absent still, and I unhappy here.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |