Poetical fragments of the late Richard Alfred Millikin ::

The groves I have traversed all through,
And the grot where she oft has reclined;
She has left me who loved her so true,
And ne'er one so constant will find.—

Alas! silly maid did she know,
What dangers on beauty attend;
Ah ne'er from my arms would she go,
These arms that her steps should defend.

Ah! why did I venture away,
And leave her who should be my care;
Some swain on that sad luckless day,
Has deceived her because she was fair.—

But she comes,—to the winds then my sighs,
Whence arose all these fears in my mind?
I see I'm to blame in her eyes,
I was cruel, and Phillis is kind.

Would Phillis approve of my lay,
How constant her praises I'd sing:
My pipe then should welcome each day,
And rival the songsters of spring.—

Did she smile when the chaplet I wove,
How cheerful I'd rifle each spray;
Sweet myrtles (the garland of love)
Fresh pluck'd in her tresses should play.—

Ah, why was my ribbon declined,
That I bought her last Valentine's day?
And why did she then so unkind,
Throw the blossoms I gather'd, away!

Was it because Strephon was there?
Young Strephon who lives in the vale:
Can his flocks or his garden compare,
Or his cottage with mine in the dale?

Green shrubs set in order around,
My dwelling embrace, and my door
Like an arbour with tendrils is crown'd,
That would tempt one the scene to explore.

A stream murmurs pleasingly by,
Where my flocks can refresh in the noon:
And the poplars that shadow it nigh,
Exclude the bright sunshine in June.

The linnets those branches among
All the day with their music delight;
Nor wanting is Philomel's song,
To soften the sadness of night.

Yellow cowslips my meadows bespread,
My hedges with wildings are lined:
That when the warm summer is fled,
Would shelter my flocks from the wind.

In my garden I planted a plot,
When Phillis was wont to be there;
With pains I enrich'd the dear spot
That Phillis its pleasures may share.

From her slights I retire to this shade,
Which, like me, all in sadness appears:
I believe that my flowrets would fade,
Unless sprinkled so oft with my tears.

While my passion she hears with a frown,
Oh! can she young Strephon believe:
When she knows he has been to the town,
And there learn'd the art to deceive.

My manners are simple and plain,
Yet I fear I shall never improve:
Fine words the unguarded may gain,
But Truth is the language of love.

University of Virginia Library

IMITATIONS OF SHENSTONE.