 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
117
MYRTILLA.
The Crimson Clouds, with Gold array'd,
O'er the rich Dawn their Pomp display'd;
The Sun in blushing Beams arose,
The Mountains glitter as he goes;
The tow'ring Lark her Anthems sings,
And Heav'n's blew Arch melodious rings;
The tuneful Thrush kept Time below,
The frisking Lambs leap to and fro;
Each feather'd Warbler stretch'd his Throat,
And Eccho answer'd ev'ry Note.
O'er the rich Dawn their Pomp display'd;
The Sun in blushing Beams arose,
The Mountains glitter as he goes;
The tow'ring Lark her Anthems sings,
And Heav'n's blew Arch melodious rings;
The tuneful Thrush kept Time below,
The frisking Lambs leap to and fro;
Each feather'd Warbler stretch'd his Throat,
And Eccho answer'd ev'ry Note.
Myrtilla now, relenting Maid,
Was walking by a verdant Shade,
There loosely dress'd in lovely Green,
Her Presence bless'd the gladsome Scene;
Her Locks Love's Labyrinth reveal,
They wanton in the balmy Gale;
The balmy Gale her Locks unfurl,
And rifle Fragrance from each Curl,
Which scatter'd Odours as they play'd;
Her snowy Breasts such Charms betray'd,
As might the coldest Heart inspire,
And warm old Age with youthful Fire.
With Eyes intent she gently moves
Attended by a thousand Loves;
A Paper glitters in her Hands,
The Edge was Gold, and Gold the Sands
That o'er the soft Contents were shed,
The Letters spangled as she read;
Her Eyes enrich the lucid Lines,
A gentle Lustre from them shines.
Then, blushing, sighs with silent Shame,
And seems her secret. Wish to blame:
Her Wishes then themselves declare,
No Wish unkind possess'd the Fair;
For mighty Love her Bosom sway'd,
And sweet Myrtilla Love obey'd.
Damon, she said, how pure thy Flame!
(And as she said she kiss'd the Name)
How long did I thy Vows reprove,
Deaf to thy Sighs, and blind to Love!
Too proud thy Passion to exchange,
Regardless of the dread Revenge
Which Love's keen Arrows have infix'd,
When with my Soul thy Image mix'd:
Ah! kneel no more, dear Youth arise,
Myrtilla now for Damon dies.
Was walking by a verdant Shade,
There loosely dress'd in lovely Green,
Her Presence bless'd the gladsome Scene;
Her Locks Love's Labyrinth reveal,
They wanton in the balmy Gale;
The balmy Gale her Locks unfurl,
And rifle Fragrance from each Curl,
Which scatter'd Odours as they play'd;
Her snowy Breasts such Charms betray'd,
As might the coldest Heart inspire,
And warm old Age with youthful Fire.
With Eyes intent she gently moves
Attended by a thousand Loves;
A Paper glitters in her Hands,
The Edge was Gold, and Gold the Sands
That o'er the soft Contents were shed,
The Letters spangled as she read;
118
A gentle Lustre from them shines.
Then, blushing, sighs with silent Shame,
And seems her secret. Wish to blame:
Her Wishes then themselves declare,
No Wish unkind possess'd the Fair;
For mighty Love her Bosom sway'd,
And sweet Myrtilla Love obey'd.
Damon, she said, how pure thy Flame!
(And as she said she kiss'd the Name)
How long did I thy Vows reprove,
Deaf to thy Sighs, and blind to Love!
Too proud thy Passion to exchange,
Regardless of the dread Revenge
Which Love's keen Arrows have infix'd,
When with my Soul thy Image mix'd:
Ah! kneel no more, dear Youth arise,
Myrtilla now for Damon dies.
Young Damon, by some God convey'd,
Had sought, like her, the Morning Shade,
Where in a Gloom with Moss o'ergrown,
He makes his melancholy Moan;
He hears her speak, he sees her move,
And what he hears and sees is Love.
Quick in his Soul soft Tumults rose,
His Blood in rushing Currents flows;
His Pulse and Breath unequal play,
Depriv'd of Motion as he lay.
Myrtilla now approaches near,
His Bosom beats with Hope and Fear;
As nearer still the Damsel drew,
The tender Tumult thicker grew;
Her plaintive Voice on Damon calls,
She sees him pant, then starting falls,
And falling with disorder'd Charms,
She drops into her Damon's Arms.
Had sought, like her, the Morning Shade,
Where in a Gloom with Moss o'ergrown,
He makes his melancholy Moan;
He hears her speak, he sees her move,
And what he hears and sees is Love.
Quick in his Soul soft Tumults rose,
His Blood in rushing Currents flows;
His Pulse and Breath unequal play,
Depriv'd of Motion as he lay.
Myrtilla now approaches near,
His Bosom beats with Hope and Fear;
As nearer still the Damsel drew,
The tender Tumult thicker grew;
119
She sees him pant, then starting falls,
And falling with disorder'd Charms,
She drops into her Damon's Arms.
Thus Love, or Chance, or both, conspire,
And Fate indulg'd each fond Desire;
The little God exulting flew,
Who would his own soft Triumph view,
He clapt his Wings, his Quiver spurn'd,
And with a Laugh aloft return'd.
And Fate indulg'd each fond Desire;
The little God exulting flew,
Who would his own soft Triumph view,
He clapt his Wings, his Quiver spurn'd,
And with a Laugh aloft return'd.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |