 | Poems by the Right Honourable the late Lord Lyttleton |  |
7
HOPE.
ECLOGUE II.
TO MR. DODDINGTON.
Hear, Doddington, the notes that shepherds sing,
Notes soft as those of nightingales in spring:
Nor Pan, nor Phoebus tune the shepherd's reed;
From love alone our tender lays proceed;
Love warms our fancy with enlivening fires,
Refines our genius, and our verse inspires:
From him Theocritus, on Enna's plains,
Learnt the wild sweetness of his Doric strains;
Virgil by him was taught the moving art,
That charm'd each ear, and soften'd every heart:
O would'st thou quit the pride of courts, and deign
To dwell with us upon the vocal plain,
Thee too his power should reach, and every shade
Resound the praises of thy favourite maid;
Thy pipe our rural concert would improve,
And we should learn of thee to please and love.
Notes soft as those of nightingales in spring:
Nor Pan, nor Phoebus tune the shepherd's reed;
From love alone our tender lays proceed;
Love warms our fancy with enlivening fires,
Refines our genius, and our verse inspires:
From him Theocritus, on Enna's plains,
Learnt the wild sweetness of his Doric strains;
Virgil by him was taught the moving art,
That charm'd each ear, and soften'd every heart:
O would'st thou quit the pride of courts, and deign
To dwell with us upon the vocal plain,
Thee too his power should reach, and every shade
Resound the praises of thy favourite maid;
Thy pipe our rural concert would improve,
And we should learn of thee to please and love.
Damon no longer sought the silent shade,
No more in unfrequented paths he stray'd,
But call'd the nymphs to hear his jocund song,
And told his joy to all the rustic throng.
No more in unfrequented paths he stray'd,
But call'd the nymphs to hear his jocund song,
And told his joy to all the rustic throng.
8
Blest be the hour, he said, that happy hour,
When first I own'd my Delia's gentle power:
Then gloomy discontent and pining care
Forsook my breast, and left soft wishes there:
Soft wishes there they left, and gay desires,
Delightful languors, and transporting fires.
Where yonder limes combine to form a shade,
These eyes first gaz'd upon the charming maid;
There she appear'd, on that auspicious day,
When swains their sportive rites to Bacchus pay:
She led the dance—heavens! with what grace she mov'd!
Who could have seen her then, and not have lov'd?
I strove not to resist so sweet a flame,
But glory'd in a happy captive's name;
Nor would I now, could love permit, be free,
But leave to brutes their savage liberty.
When first I own'd my Delia's gentle power:
Then gloomy discontent and pining care
Forsook my breast, and left soft wishes there:
Soft wishes there they left, and gay desires,
Delightful languors, and transporting fires.
Where yonder limes combine to form a shade,
These eyes first gaz'd upon the charming maid;
There she appear'd, on that auspicious day,
When swains their sportive rites to Bacchus pay:
She led the dance—heavens! with what grace she mov'd!
Who could have seen her then, and not have lov'd?
I strove not to resist so sweet a flame,
But glory'd in a happy captive's name;
Nor would I now, could love permit, be free,
But leave to brutes their savage liberty.
And art thou then, fond swain, secure of joy?
Can no reverse thy flattering bliss destroy!
Has treacherous love no torment yet in store?
Or hast thou never prov'd his fatal power?
Whence flow'd those tears that late bedew'd thy cheek?
Why sigh'd thy heart as if it strove to break?
Why were the desart rocks invok'd to hear
The plaintive accents of thy sad despair?
From Delia's rigour all those pains arose,
Delia, who now compassionates my woes,
Who bids me hope; and in that charming word
Has peace and transport to my soul restor'd.
Can no reverse thy flattering bliss destroy!
Has treacherous love no torment yet in store?
Or hast thou never prov'd his fatal power?
Whence flow'd those tears that late bedew'd thy cheek?
Why sigh'd thy heart as if it strove to break?
Why were the desart rocks invok'd to hear
The plaintive accents of thy sad despair?
From Delia's rigour all those pains arose,
Delia, who now compassionates my woes,
Who bids me hope; and in that charming word
Has peace and transport to my soul restor'd.
Begin, my pipe, begin the gladsome lay;
A kiss from Delia shall thy music pay;
A kiss obtain'd 'twixt struggling and consent,
Given with forc'd anger, and disguis'd content:
No laureat wreaths I ask to bind my brows,
Such as the Muse on lofty bards bestows;
Let other swains to praise or fame aspire:
I from her lips my recompence require.
A kiss from Delia shall thy music pay;
9
Given with forc'd anger, and disguis'd content:
No laureat wreaths I ask to bind my brows,
Such as the Muse on lofty bards bestows;
Let other swains to praise or fame aspire:
I from her lips my recompence require.
Hark how the bees with murmurs fill the plain
While every flower of every sweet they drain:
See, how beneath yon hilloc's shady steep,
The shelter'd herds on flowery couches sleep:
Nor bees, nor herds, are half so blest as I,
If with my fond desires my love comply;
From Delia's lips a sweeter honey flows,
And on her bosom dwells more soft repose.
While every flower of every sweet they drain:
See, how beneath yon hilloc's shady steep,
The shelter'd herds on flowery couches sleep:
Nor bees, nor herds, are half so blest as I,
If with my fond desires my love comply;
From Delia's lips a sweeter honey flows,
And on her bosom dwells more soft repose.
Ah how, my dear, shall I deserve thy charms?
What gift can bribe thee to my longing arms?
A bird for thee in silken bands I hold,
Whose yellow plumage shines like polish'd gold;
From distant isles the lovely stranger came,
And bears the Fortunate Canaries name;
In all our woods none boasts so sweet a note,
Not even the nightingale's melodious throat.
Accept of this; and could I add beside
What wealth the rich Peruvian mountains hide;
If all the gems in Eastern rocks were mine,
On thee alone their glittering pride should shine.
But if thy mind no gifts have power to move,
Phoebus himself shall leave the Aonian grove;
The tuneful Nine, who never sue in vain,
Shall come sweet suppliants for their favourite swain.
For him each blue-ey'd Naiad of the flood,
For him each green-hair'd sister of the wood,
Whom oft beneath fair Cynthia's gentle ray
His music calls to dance the night away.
And you, fair nymphs, companions of my Love,
With whom she joys the cowslip meads to rove,
I beg you recommend my faithful flame,
And let her often hear her shepherd's name;
Shade all my faults from her inquiring sight,
And shew my merits in the fairest light;
My pipe your kind assistance shall repay,
And every friend shall claim a different lay.
What gift can bribe thee to my longing arms?
A bird for thee in silken bands I hold,
Whose yellow plumage shines like polish'd gold;
From distant isles the lovely stranger came,
And bears the Fortunate Canaries name;
In all our woods none boasts so sweet a note,
Not even the nightingale's melodious throat.
Accept of this; and could I add beside
What wealth the rich Peruvian mountains hide;
If all the gems in Eastern rocks were mine,
On thee alone their glittering pride should shine.
But if thy mind no gifts have power to move,
Phoebus himself shall leave the Aonian grove;
The tuneful Nine, who never sue in vain,
Shall come sweet suppliants for their favourite swain.
10
For him each green-hair'd sister of the wood,
Whom oft beneath fair Cynthia's gentle ray
His music calls to dance the night away.
And you, fair nymphs, companions of my Love,
With whom she joys the cowslip meads to rove,
I beg you recommend my faithful flame,
And let her often hear her shepherd's name;
Shade all my faults from her inquiring sight,
And shew my merits in the fairest light;
My pipe your kind assistance shall repay,
And every friend shall claim a different lay.
But see! in yonder glade the heavenly fair
Enjoys the fragrance of the breezy air—
Ah, thither let me fly with eager feet:
Adieu, my pipe, I go my love to meet—
O may I find her as we parted last,
And may each future hour be like the past!
So shall the whitest lamb these pastures feed,
Propitious Venus, on thy altars bleed.
Enjoys the fragrance of the breezy air—
Ah, thither let me fly with eager feet:
Adieu, my pipe, I go my love to meet—
O may I find her as we parted last,
And may each future hour be like the past!
So shall the whitest lamb these pastures feed,
Propitious Venus, on thy altars bleed.
| Poems by the Right Honourable the late Lord Lyttleton | |