 | The rural lyre |  |
139
THE INDIFFERENT SHEPHERDESS TO COLIN.
Colin, why this mistake?
Why plead thy foolish love?
My heart shall sooner break
Than I a minion prove;
Nor care I half a rush,
No snare I spread for thee:
Go home, my friend, and blush
For love and liberty.
Why plead thy foolish love?
My heart shall sooner break
Than I a minion prove;
Nor care I half a rush,
No snare I spread for thee:
Go home, my friend, and blush
For love and liberty.
Remembrance is my own—
Dominion bright and clear,
Truth there was ever known
To combat ev'ry care:
One image there imprest
Thro' life shall ever be,
Whilst my innoxious breast
Owns love of liberty.
Dominion bright and clear,
Truth there was ever known
To combat ev'ry care:
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Thro' life shall ever be,
Whilst my innoxious breast
Owns love of liberty.
I ever taught thee how
To prize the soul entire,
When on the mountain's brow
I tun'd my rural lyre:
Thou servile art and vain,
Thy love unworthy me!
Away! nor hear my strain,
Of love or liberty.
To prize the soul entire,
When on the mountain's brow
I tun'd my rural lyre:
Thou servile art and vain,
Thy love unworthy me!
Away! nor hear my strain,
Of love or liberty.
What arts need I display
To woo a soul like thine?
Thou ne'er canst know the way
My mem'ry to confine;
For my eternal plan
Is to be calm and free.
Estrang'd from tyrant man
I'll keep my liberty.
To woo a soul like thine?
Thou ne'er canst know the way
My mem'ry to confine;
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Is to be calm and free.
Estrang'd from tyrant man
I'll keep my liberty.
Yon woods their foliage wear,
Be thou away or nigh;
The warblers of the year
Instruct me not to sigh:
My tears ne'er roll the steep,
Nor swell the restless sea,
Except for those who sleep
Bereft of liberty.
Be thou away or nigh;
The warblers of the year
Instruct me not to sigh:
My tears ne'er roll the steep,
Nor swell the restless sea,
Except for those who sleep
Bereft of liberty.
Slave to commanding eyes!
Those eyes thou wouldst commend
My judgment must despise—
My pity is thy friend:
If eyes alone can move
A swain so dull as thee,
They mean but to reprove
Thy loss of liberty.
Those eyes thou wouldst commend
My judgment must despise—
My pity is thy friend:
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A swain so dull as thee,
They mean but to reprove
Thy loss of liberty.
I stray o'er rocks and fields
Where native beauties shine:
All fetter'd fancy yields
Be, Colin, ever thine.
Complain no more! but rove—
My cheek from crimson free,
Within my native grove
I'll guard my liberty.
Where native beauties shine:
All fetter'd fancy yields
Be, Colin, ever thine.
Complain no more! but rove—
My cheek from crimson free,
Within my native grove
I'll guard my liberty.
| The rural lyre | |