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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THE SHEPHERD'S MORAL. A PASTORAL BALLAD. |
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 | The Shamrock |  |
75
THE SHEPHERD'S MORAL. A PASTORAL BALLAD.
By a YOUNG GENTLEMAN of Fifteen.
The Sky was clear; the Air was still;
The Sun had gilt the Eastern Hill;
The Silver Dews impearl'd the Ground;
And Nature breath'd her Fragrance round;
The wild Musicians of the Grove
Attun'd their little Souls to Love;
And every Throat, from every Spray,
With Rapture hail'd the rising Day:
When Will, with sadly-pensive Tread,
As up the Hill his Flock he led,
Saw Sue, advancing, with her Pail;
And flew to meet her on the Vale:
Long had the Youth in Secret mourn'd;
Nor told the Flame with which he burn'd:
Occasion call 'd; he bless'd the Day;
And thus began the rural Lay.
The Sun had gilt the Eastern Hill;
The Silver Dews impearl'd the Ground;
And Nature breath'd her Fragrance round;
The wild Musicians of the Grove
Attun'd their little Souls to Love;
And every Throat, from every Spray,
With Rapture hail'd the rising Day:
When Will, with sadly-pensive Tread,
As up the Hill his Flock he led,
Saw Sue, advancing, with her Pail;
And flew to meet her on the Vale:
Long had the Youth in Secret mourn'd;
Nor told the Flame with which he burn'd:
Occasion call 'd; he bless'd the Day;
And thus began the rural Lay.
Observe, my Fair-one, all around,
What Beauties deck the painted Ground;
How sweet a Smell the Blossoms yield;
How rich a Verdure cloathes the Field;
The Skies how clear; how soft the Breeze,
That, panting, dies upon the Trees;
How mild the Morn's ambrosial Ray;
How lovely all the Bloom of May.
What Beauties deck the painted Ground;
76
How rich a Verdure cloathes the Field;
The Skies how clear; how soft the Breeze,
That, panting, dies upon the Trees;
How mild the Morn's ambrosial Ray;
How lovely all the Bloom of May.
Up yon green Hill, whose wood-crown'd Brow
Hangs o'er the Stream that brawls below,
Behold, how gamesome, on the Grass,
The Flocks their jocund Minutes pass;
And, hark! how sweet, from yonder Bower,
The Birds their artless Sonnets pour:
Love guides the Sports; Love tunes the Lay;
And all Creation owns his Sway.
Hangs o'er the Stream that brawls below,
Behold, how gamesome, on the Grass,
The Flocks their jocund Minutes pass;
And, hark! how sweet, from yonder Bower,
The Birds their artless Sonnets pour:
Love guides the Sports; Love tunes the Lay;
And all Creation owns his Sway.
Pass but a little While; and see,
How sad a Change the Fates decree!
No more, the tender Flocks are seen,
In sportive Gambols on the Green;
No more, exulting on the Wing,
The Birds their early Carrols bring:
They hang their Heads—and all the gay,
The bright Appearance melts away.
How sad a Change the Fates decree!
No more, the tender Flocks are seen,
In sportive Gambols on the Green;
No more, exulting on the Wing,
The Birds their early Carrols bring:
They hang their Heads—and all the gay,
The bright Appearance melts away.
Stern Winter stalks abroad—and, lo!
All Nature shudders at the Blow:
His icy Hand deforms the Scene;
And mars the Glories of the Plain;
Lays bare the Hill's enamell'd Side;
And strips the Meadow of its Pride;
Thick Clouds obscure the genial Ray;
And all Things sicken to Decay.
All Nature shudders at the Blow:
His icy Hand deforms the Scene;
And mars the Glories of the Plain;
Lays bare the Hill's enamell'd Side;
And strips the Meadow of its Pride;
Thick Clouds obscure the genial Ray;
And all Things sicken to Decay.
77
Thus, too, from Life—or Wisdom lies—
Each Hour steals something as it flies:
What Pain to think! That Form of thine,
That lovely Form shall soon decline:
The Roses from thy Cheek shall fly;
The Lightenings shall desert thine Eye;
And all thy Charms' Assemblage gay
Devouring Time shall make his Prey.
Each Hour steals something as it flies:
What Pain to think! That Form of thine,
That lovely Form shall soon decline:
The Roses from thy Cheek shall fly;
The Lightenings shall desert thine Eye;
And all thy Charms' Assemblage gay
Devouring Time shall make his Prey.
Learn, then, my Fair, nor think it wrong
To learn, the Moral of the Song:—
The present Hour do thou improve;
And give, O give it all to Love!
Time's on the Wing—Let us be wise;
And catch the Blessing ere it flies!
Life's but a Span; and Sages say,
That Youth's the Morning of the Day!
To learn, the Moral of the Song:—
The present Hour do thou improve;
And give, O give it all to Love!
Time's on the Wing—Let us be wise;
And catch the Blessing ere it flies!
Life's but a Span; and Sages say,
That Youth's the Morning of the Day!
| The Shamrock | |