University of Virginia Library

Her mournful languid Eyes are rarely shown,
Unless to those afflicted like her own.
In her Apartment, all obscure as Night,
(Discover'd only by a glimm'ring Light)
Weeping she sits, her Face with Grief dismay'd,
Which all its native Sweetness has decay'd;
Yet in Despite of Grief, there does appear
The ruin'd Monuments of what was fair,
Ere cruel Love and Grief had took Possession there.
These made her old without the Help of Years,
Worn out and faint with ling'ring Hopes and Fears;
She seldom answers ought, but with her Tears.
No Train attends; she only is obey'd
By Melancholy, soft and silent Maid.
The noisy Streams, that from high Mountains fall,
And water all the neighb'ring flow'ry Wall;
The Murmurs of the Rivulets, that glide
Against the bending Sedges on the Side;
Of mournful Birds, the sad and tuneful Notes,
The Bleats of struggling Lambs, and new-yean'd Goats;
The distant Pipe of some lone Mountain-Swain,
Who to his injur'd Passion fits his Strain,
Are all the Harmony her Soul can entertain.

On a strict League of Friendship we agree,
For I was sad, and as forlorn as she;
To all her Humours I conform my own,
Together sigh, together weep and moan;
Like her, to Woods and Fountains I retreat,
And urge the pitying Echo's to repeat
My Tale of Love, and at each Period sound
Aminta's Name, and bear it all around;
Whilst list'ning Voices do the Charm reply,
And, lost in mixing Air, together die.
Their Minutes, like dull Days, creep slowly on,
And ev'ry Day I drag an Age along.
I rav'd, I wish'd, I wept, but all in vain;
The distant Maid nor saw, nor eas'd my Pain.
With my sad Tale each tender Bark I fill,
This soft Complaints, and that my Ravings tell;
This bears vain Curses on my cruel Fate,
And Blessings on the charming Virgin, that.
The Willow by the lonely Spring that grows,
And o'er the Stream bends his forsaken Boughs,
I call Lysander; they, like him, I find
Murmur, and ruffled are with ev'ry Wind.
On the young springing Beech, that's strait and tall,
I carve her Name, and that Aminta call.
But where I see an Oak that climbs above
The rest, and grows the Monster of the Grove,
Whose pow'rful Arms, when aiding Winds do blow,
Dash all the tender twining Shades below;
And ev'n in Calms does so malicious spread,
That nought below can thrive, embrace, or breed;
Whose Mischiefs far exceed his fancy'd Good;
That I call Honour, Tyrant of the Wood.
Thus rove from Thought to Thought, without Relief;
A Change, 'tis true, but 'tis from Grief to Grief.
Which when above my Silence does prevail,
With Love I chide, on my Misfortunes rail,
And to the Winds breathe my neglected Tale.