 | A collection of original poems and translations |  |
71
ANOTHER.
Sweet Solitude, that e'en Despair canst charm,
And of their Force their sharpest Ills disarm,
Oh! ease a while the Anguish I endure.
Ye Zephyrs still more gently whisp'ring blow,
Ye Streams, with still a softer murm'ring flow,
And try at least to sooth what nought can cure.
And of their Force their sharpest Ills disarm,
Oh! ease a while the Anguish I endure.
Ye Zephyrs still more gently whisp'ring blow,
Ye Streams, with still a softer murm'ring flow,
And try at least to sooth what nought can cure.
Ye Nightingales, whose melancholy Song,
Rolls on with pleasing Sadness all Night long,
Lend me your Notes to tell what I endure.
Ye Zephyrs still more gently whis'pring blow,
Ye Streams with still a softer murm'ring flow,
And try at least to sooth what nought can cure.
Rolls on with pleasing Sadness all Night long,
Lend me your Notes to tell what I endure.
Ye Zephyrs still more gently whis'pring blow,
Ye Streams with still a softer murm'ring flow,
And try at least to sooth what nought can cure.
And thou, cold Maid, if the dull Winds that bear,
My dying Sighs, convey them to thine Ear,
Speaking the killing Torments I endure;
Oh say, tho' Hopes of Love from thee are vain,
Say thou canst Pity an expiring Swain,
And sooth at lest the Wounds you will not cure.
My dying Sighs, convey them to thine Ear,
Speaking the killing Torments I endure;
Oh say, tho' Hopes of Love from thee are vain,
Say thou canst Pity an expiring Swain,
And sooth at lest the Wounds you will not cure.
| A collection of original poems and translations | |