The Shamrock or, Hibernian Cresses. A Collection of Poems, Songs, Epigrams, &c. Latin as well as English, The Original Production of Ireland. To which are subjoined thoughts on the prevailing system of school education, respecting young ladies as well as gentlemen: with practical proposals for a reformation [by Samuel Whyte] |
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| I. | ELEGY I. To Damon. |
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 | The Shamrock |  |
ELEGY I. To Damon.
No longer hope, fond Youth, to hide thy Pain,
No longer blush the Secret to impart;
Too well I know what broken Murmurs mean,
And Sighs that burst, half stifled, from the Heart.
No longer blush the Secret to impart;
Too well I know what broken Murmurs mean,
And Sighs that burst, half stifled, from the Heart.
Nor did I learn this Skill by Ovid's Rule;
The magic Arts are to thy Friend unknown:
I never study'd but in Myra's School;
And only judge thy Passion by my own.
The magic Arts are to thy Friend unknown:
I never study'd but in Myra's School;
And only judge thy Passion by my own.
135
Believe me,
Love is jealous of his Power;
Confess betimes the Influence of the God:
The Stubborn feel new Torments every Hour;
To merit Mercy, we must kiss the Rod.
Confess betimes the Influence of the God:
The Stubborn feel new Torments every Hour;
To merit Mercy, we must kiss the Rod.
In vain, alas! you seek the lonely Grove,
And in sad Numbers to the Thames complain:
The Shade, with kindred Softness, sooths thy Love,
Sad Numbers sooth, but cannot cure, thy Pain.
And in sad Numbers to the Thames complain:
The Shade, with kindred Softness, sooths thy Love,
Sad Numbers sooth, but cannot cure, thy Pain.
When Phœbus felt (as Story sings) the Smart,
By the coy Beauties of his Daphne fir'd,
Not Phœbus self could profit by his Art,
Though all the Nine the sacred Lay inspir'd.
By the coy Beauties of his Daphne fir'd,
Not Phœbus self could profit by his Art,
Though all the Nine the sacred Lay inspir'd.
Even should the Maid vouchsafe to hear thy Song,
No tender Feelings will its Sorrows raise;
For, Verse hath mourn'd imagin'd Woes so long,
She'll hear unmov'd, and, without pitying, praise.
No tender Feelings will its Sorrows raise;
For, Verse hath mourn'd imagin'd Woes so long,
She'll hear unmov'd, and, without pitying, praise.
Nor yet, proud Maid, should'st thou refuse thine Ear;
Nor are the Manners of the Poet rude;
Nor pours he not the sympathetic Tear,
His Heart by Anguish, not his own, subdu'd.
Nor are the Manners of the Poet rude;
Nor pours he not the sympathetic Tear,
His Heart by Anguish, not his own, subdu'd.
When fairest Names in long Oblivion rot,
(For fairest Names must yield to wasting Time)
The Poet's Mistress 'scapes the common Lot,
And blooms un-injur'd in his living Rhyme.
(For fairest Names must yield to wasting Time)
The Poet's Mistress 'scapes the common Lot,
And blooms un-injur'd in his living Rhyme.
| The Shamrock | |