THE SHEPHERD'S PIPE.
LO! the pipe of poor Colin, mute, mute, how it lies!
No more to be swelled by his hopes, or his sighs!
‘Go, leave me!’ said he, ‘since unpriz'd by the fair.’
Then he wistfully flung it away in despair.
Who, like Colin, could give it of rapture the sound,
Which the echoes with rapture repeated around?
Or give it, like Colin, a soul to complain?
And who like the shepherd e'er gave it in vain?
'Twas here, at the peep of the morn, that he stray'd
To sooth with its music the ear of the maid!
'Twas here that he wak'd its sweet voice, to delight
(Not Philomel's sweeter!) her slumber at night.
But vain were his vows, and the voice of his reed;
The heart of poor Colin was fated to bleed!
See his grave! near yon tree his pale relics are laid,
'Mid the bow'r that he planted, of silence and shade.
Ah! blame not the nymph who was deaf to his tale,
Since her heart was betroth'd to a youth of the vale.
Come, virgins, we'll gather the flow'rs of the grove,
And strew on the victim of Sorrow and Love.
