Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Sun was sunk beneath the Western Hill,
Clear was the Skie, and all the Groves were still:
No Noise was heard within the silent Wood,
Save the low Murmurs of a rowling Flood,
Or what the passing Beetle breaths around,
A drowsy, humming, melancholy Sound:
'Twas at this time, a Shepherd's Boy was laid
Beside the Fallings of a soft Cascade;
The soft Cascade but slowly rowl'd along,
Hung in it's Fall, and listen'd to his Song:

The flying Gales and ev'ry passing Breeze,
With gentle Sighs fill'd all the trembling Trees;
The trembling Trees a dumb Compassion shew,
Droop'd their tall Heads, and press'd the Greens below:
The weeping Brooks ran mournful down the Plains,
And tun'd their Murmurs to his rising Strains:
But Gales, nor Trees, nor Brooks enough deplore,
Phæbe is dead! and Colin joys no more.

Unhappy Swain! (the mournful Shepherd cry'd,
The flatt'ring Vales and lofty Hills reply'd
Unhappy Swain!) Ah! luckless Day to me!
Would I had never liv'd that Day to see!
When 'long the Margin of this silver Flood,
Beneath this pendant Shade, and bow'ring Wood,
The beauteous Corse in fun'ral Pomp was led,
Whilst the sad Stream remurmur'd, Phæbe's dead:
The silver Swans, that on her Waters glide,
And oft were seen to graze her herbag'd Side,

Now, seeming conscious of the lovely Maid,
Lament their Loss beneath the Poplar Shade;
(For oft at Morn, or in the Evening fair,
Phæbe would feed 'em, as her darling Care.)
With doleful Notes they fill the sounding Shore,
And cry with me, poor Phæbe is no more.

When Phæbe's Presence gladden'd all the Plains,
Fresh were the Greens and sweet the Sylvan Strains:
The feather'd Syrens warbled thro' the Shade,
And, as we pass'd, their tuneful Homage pay'd:
The Flocks and Herds in seeming Pleasure stood,
And Bleats and Lowings fill'd the lofty Wood:
But now she's gone, no more delight the Plains,
Nor fresh the Greens, nor sweet the sylvan Strains,
No more the Birds sit warbling on the Spray,
Nor, as I pass, their tuneful Homage pay;
The Flocks and Herds, unmindful of their Food,
And wild with Grief, run frantick thro' the Wood:

My Pipe, that wont before to play so sweet,
Now lies neglected at it's Master's feet;
And Tray, poor Cur! unknowing where to go,
Whines at my Side, as sensible of Woe:
The Birds and Cattle all with me deplore,
Phæbe is dead! and Colin joys no more.

For Her the Shades their silken Slumbers yield,
For Her the Flow'rs perfum'd the painted Field.
For Her the musky Zephyrs tun'd the Shade,
And whisp'ring Boughs in soft'ning Musick play'd;
For Her soft-purling Rills from Summits flow,
Whose tinkling Drops resound in Grotts below;
For Her the Lawns and opening Glades were seen
Cloth'd in their Pride, and all their summer-Green:
But now she's gone, tho' still these Scenes appear,
Tho' still these Shades and Lawns and Rills are here,
Methinks, nor these my Sight, nor those delight my Ear.

No more the Shades their silken Slumbers yield,
Nor can I think, the Flow'rs perfume the field;
No more the musky Zephyrs tune their Lay,
Nor whisp'ring Boughs in soft'ning Musick play;
No more soft-purling Rills from Summits flow,
Nor tinkling Drops resound in Grotts below;
No more the Lawns and opening Glades are seen
Cloth'd in their Pride, and all their Summer-Green:
The Shades, the Rills, the Lawns with me deplore,
Phæbe is dead! and Colin joys no more.

Come, all ye Nymphs! and all ye rural Swains!
Once the dear Partners of my oaten Strains!
(For oft' ye've heard me sing, and heard me play,
Whilst Phæbe tript it to the sprightly Lay.)
Come, and behold how low in Earth she's laid,
Come, and with me lament the lovely Maid;
Phæbe! the dear, sad Object of my Care!
Phæbe is dead! the fairest of the Fair!

Then what is Life? what Joys can Being give,
Since she is gone, for whom alone, I live?
But here my Sighs shall stop, my Life shall End,
Then welcome, Death! thou only art my Friend;
Thro' this clear Stream to Phæbe's Ghost I'll go,
There tell my Tale of Sorrow down below.

Then, with a Spring, he leap'd from off the Steep,
And plung'd his Soul beneath the azure Deep:
Poor, faithfull Tray, who never left his side,
Leap'd from the Bank, and with his Master dy'd.
The Nymphs and Swains beheld the Shepherd's Fate,
To the sad Stream they came, but came too late;
Struck at the Sight, they raise a doleful Cry,
The Hills, the Dales, and lonely Woods reply:
The Nymphs and Swains their fatal Loss deplore;
The vocal Stream resounds and hollow Shore,
Phæbe is dead! and Colin is no more.