 | Poems (1749) |  |
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PASTORAL ECLOGUES.
ECLOGUE I. DAPHNE.
Sicilian muse my humble voice inspire
To sing of Daphne's charms and Damon's fire.
Long had the faithful swain supprest his grief
And since he durst not hope, ne'er ask'd relief.
But at th' arrival of the fatal day,
That took the nymph and all his joys away,
With dying looks he gaz'd upon the fair,
And what his tongue cou'd not, his eyes declare:
'Till with deep sighs, as if his heart-strings broke,
Pressing her hand, these tender things he spoke:
Damon.To sing of Daphne's charms and Damon's fire.
Long had the faithful swain supprest his grief
And since he durst not hope, ne'er ask'd relief.
But at th' arrival of the fatal day,
That took the nymph and all his joys away,
With dying looks he gaz'd upon the fair,
And what his tongue cou'd not, his eyes declare:
'Till with deep sighs, as if his heart-strings broke,
Pressing her hand, these tender things he spoke:
Ah lovely nymph, behold your lover burn,
And view the passion which you'll not return.
As no nymph's charms did ever equal thine;
So no swain's love did ever equal mine.
How happy, fair, how happy should I be,
Might I but sacrifice my self for thee?
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And make thee shed one tear upon my herse?
Daphne.
Too free an offer of that love you make,
Which now, alas, I have not pow'r to take:
Your wounds I cannot, tho' I wou'd, relieve:
Phaon has all the love that I can give.
Had you among the rest at first assail'd
My heart, when free, you had perhaps prevail'd.
Now if you blame, oh blame not me, but fate,
That never brought you 'till 'twas grown too late.
Damon.
Had the fates brought me then, too charming fair,
I cou'd not hope, and now I must despair.
Rul'd by your friends, you quit the lover's flame,
For flocks, for pastures, for an empty name.
Yet tho' the blest possession fate denies;
Oh let me gaze for ever on those eyes.
So just, so true, so innocent's my flame,
That Phaon, did he see it, cou'd not blame.
Daphne.
Such gen'rous ends I know you still pursue,
What I can do, besure I will for you.
If on esteem, or pity, you can live,
Or hopes of more, if I had more to give;
Those you may have, but cannot have my heart:
And since we now perhaps for ever part;
Such noble thoughts through all your life express,
May make the value more, the pity less.
Damon.
Can you then go? can you for ever part?
Ye gods! what shivering pains surround my heart!
And have one thought to make your pity less;
Ah Daphne, cou'd I half my pangs express,
You cou'd not think, tho' hard as rocks you were,
Your pity ever cou'd too great appear.
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'Till I behold those charming eyes again.
When gay diversions do your thoughts employ,
I wou'd not come to interrupt the joy:
But when from them you some spare moment find,
Think then, oh think on whom you leave behind!
Think with what heart I shall behold the green,
Where I so oft those charming eyes have seen!
Think with what grief I walk the groves alone,
When you, the glory of them all, are gone!
Yet, oh! that little time you have to stay,
Let me still speak, and gaze my soul away!
But see, my passion that small aid denies;
Grief stops my tongue, and tears o'er-flow my eyes.
ECLOGUE II. GALATEA.
Thyrsis, the gayest one of all the swains,
Who fed their flocks upon th' Arcadian plains,
While love's mad passion quite devour'd his heart,
And the coy nymph that caus'd, neglects his smart,
Strives in low numbers, such as shepherds use,
If not to move her breast, his own t' amuse.
You, Chloris, who with scorn refuse to see
The mighty wounds that you have made on me;
Yet cannot sure with equal pride disdain,
To hear an humble hind of his complain.
Who fed their flocks upon th' Arcadian plains,
While love's mad passion quite devour'd his heart,
And the coy nymph that caus'd, neglects his smart,
Strives in low numbers, such as shepherds use,
If not to move her breast, his own t' amuse.
You, Chloris, who with scorn refuse to see
The mighty wounds that you have made on me;
Yet cannot sure with equal pride disdain,
To hear an humble hind of his complain.
Now while the flocks and herds to shades retire,
While the fierce sun sets all the world on fire;
Thro' burning fields, thro' rugged brakes I rove,
And to the hills and woods declare my love,
How small's the heat? how easy is the pain
I feel without, to that I feel within?
While the fierce sun sets all the world on fire;
Thro' burning fields, thro' rugged brakes I rove,
And to the hills and woods declare my love,
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I feel without, to that I feel within?
Yet scornful Galatea will not hear,
But from my songs and pipe still turns her ear.
Not so the sage Corisca, nor the fair
Climena, nor rich Ægon's only care:
From them my songs a just compassion drew,
And they shall have them, since contemn'd by you.
But from my songs and pipe still turns her ear.
Not so the sage Corisca, nor the fair
Climena, nor rich Ægon's only care:
From them my songs a just compassion drew,
And they shall have them, since contemn'd by you.
Why name I them, when ev'n chaste Cynthia stays,
And Pan himself, to listen to my lays?
Pan, whose sweet pipe has been admir'd so long,
Has not disdain'd sometimes to hear my song.
Yet Galatea scorns whate'er I say;
And Galatea's wiser sure than they.
And Pan himself, to listen to my lays?
Pan, whose sweet pipe has been admir'd so long,
Has not disdain'd sometimes to hear my song.
Yet Galatea scorns whate'er I say;
And Galatea's wiser sure than they.
Relentless nymph! can nothing move your mind
Must you be deaf, because you are unkind?
Tho' you dislike the subject of my lays,
Yet sure the sweetness of my voice might please.
It is not thus that you dull Mopsus use,
His songs divert you, tho' you mine refuse.
Yet I cou'd tell you, fair one, if I wou'd,
And since you treat me thus, methinks I shou'd,
What the wise Lyoon said, when in yon plain
He saw him court in hope, and me in vain;
Forbear, fond youth, to chase a heedless fair,
Nor think with well-tun'd verse to please her ear;
Seek out some other nymph, nor e'er repine,
That one who likes his songs, shou'd fly from thine.
Must you be deaf, because you are unkind?
Tho' you dislike the subject of my lays,
Yet sure the sweetness of my voice might please.
It is not thus that you dull Mopsus use,
His songs divert you, tho' you mine refuse.
Yet I cou'd tell you, fair one, if I wou'd,
And since you treat me thus, methinks I shou'd,
What the wise Lyoon said, when in yon plain
He saw him court in hope, and me in vain;
Forbear, fond youth, to chase a heedless fair,
Nor think with well-tun'd verse to please her ear;
Seek out some other nymph, nor e'er repine,
That one who likes his songs, shou'd fly from thine.
Ah, Lycon! ah! your rage false dangers forms;
'Tis not his songs, but 'tis his fortune charms:
Yet, scornful maid, in time you'll find those toys
Can yield no real, no substantial joys;
In vain his wealth, his titles gain esteem,
If for all that you are asham'd of him.
'Tis not his songs, but 'tis his fortune charms:
Yet, scornful maid, in time you'll find those toys
Can yield no real, no substantial joys;
In vain his wealth, his titles gain esteem,
If for all that you are asham'd of him.
Ah, Galatea, wou'dst thou turn those eyes,
Wou'dst thou but once vouchsafe to hear my cries:
In such soft notes I wou'd my pains impart,
As cou'd not fail to move thy rocky heart;
With such sweet songs I wou'd thy fame make known,
As Pan himself might not disdain to own.
Oh cou'dst thou, fair one, but contented be
To tend the sheep, and chase the hares with me;
To have thy praises eccho'd thro' the groves,
And pass thy days with one who truly loves;
Nor let those gaudy toys thy heart surprize,
Which the fools envy, and the sage despise.
Wou'dst thou but once vouchsafe to hear my cries:
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As cou'd not fail to move thy rocky heart;
With such sweet songs I wou'd thy fame make known,
As Pan himself might not disdain to own.
Oh cou'dst thou, fair one, but contented be
To tend the sheep, and chase the hares with me;
To have thy praises eccho'd thro' the groves,
And pass thy days with one who truly loves;
Nor let those gaudy toys thy heart surprize,
Which the fools envy, and the sage despise.
But Galatea scorns my humble flame,
And neither ask my fortune, nor my name.
Of the best cheese my well-stor'd dairy's full,
And my soft sheep produce the finest wool;
The richest wines of Greece my vineyards yield,
And smiling crops of grain adorn my field.
And neither ask my fortune, nor my name.
Of the best cheese my well-stor'd dairy's full,
And my soft sheep produce the finest wool;
The richest wines of Greece my vineyards yield,
And smiling crops of grain adorn my field.
Ah, foolish youth! in vain thou boast'st thy store,
Have what thou wilt, if Mopsus still has more.
See whil'st thou sing'st, behold her haughty pride,
With what disdain she turns her head aside!
Oh, why wou'd nature, to our ruin, place
A tyger's heart, with such an angel's face?
Have what thou wilt, if Mopsus still has more.
See whil'st thou sing'st, behold her haughty pride,
With what disdain she turns her head aside!
Oh, why wou'd nature, to our ruin, place
A tyger's heart, with such an angel's face?
Cease, shepherd, cease at last thy fruitless moan;
Nor hope to gain a heart already gone.
While rocks and caves thy tuneful notes resound,
See how thy corn lyes wither'd on the ground!
The hungry wolves devour thy fatten'd lambs;
And bleating for the young, makes lean the dams.
Take, shepherd, take thy hook, thy flocks pursue,
And when one nymph proves cruel, find a new.
Nor hope to gain a heart already gone.
While rocks and caves thy tuneful notes resound,
See how thy corn lyes wither'd on the ground!
The hungry wolves devour thy fatten'd lambs;
And bleating for the young, makes lean the dams.
Take, shepherd, take thy hook, thy flocks pursue,
And when one nymph proves cruel, find a new.
| Poems (1749) | |