 | The Shepherd's Garden |  |
80
CORYDON'S LAMENT.
Beside a brook last eve I heard with pity
A rueful shepherd chant this doleful ditty.
A rueful shepherd chant this doleful ditty.
Oh, sing with me a dirge,
And steep yourselves in woe,
And clothe you all in serge,
And sadly weeping go;
My love that was so sweet,
Hath left me quite alone;
No more on earth to meet.
Alack, poor Corydon!
I have lost my love, he said,
She is laid in her death-bed:
There is no hope for me, poor Corydon.
And steep yourselves in woe,
And clothe you all in serge,
And sadly weeping go;
My love that was so sweet,
Hath left me quite alone;
No more on earth to meet.
Alack, poor Corydon!
I have lost my love, he said,
She is laid in her death-bed:
There is no hope for me, poor Corydon.
Her eyes were clear and bright
As stars in topmost sky;
Love set therein his light,
That you might know them by.
Her hair was all of gold,
Her face most fairly shone,
Her form of finest mould
From Beauty's self was won.
I have lost my love, he said,
She is laid in her death-bed:
There is no hope for me, poor Corydon.
As stars in topmost sky;
Love set therein his light,
That you might know them by.
Her hair was all of gold,
Her face most fairly shone,
Her form of finest mould
From Beauty's self was won.
81
She is laid in her death-bed:
There is no hope for me, poor Corydon.
Her hand with gentle touch
My own would lightly twine,
Soft as a dove; none such
Shall ever clasp with mine.
She had an angel grace
So rare to look upon,
As surely now-a-days
Such grace is never known.
I have lost my love, he said,
She is laid in her death-bed:
There is no hope for me, poor Corydon.
My own would lightly twine,
Soft as a dove; none such
Shall ever clasp with mine.
She had an angel grace
So rare to look upon,
As surely now-a-days
Such grace is never known.
I have lost my love, he said,
She is laid in her death-bed:
There is no hope for me, poor Corydon.
Oh, careful day! I weep
In vain from morn to eve,
No tears my heart do steep
My sorrow may relieve;
Yet here, with many a groan,
My wasting life shall fade,
Until beside her own,
My body shall be laid.
I have lost my love, he said,
She is laid in her death-bed:
There is no help for me, poor Corydon.
In vain from morn to eve,
No tears my heart do steep
My sorrow may relieve;
Yet here, with many a groan,
My wasting life shall fade,
Until beside her own,
My body shall be laid.
I have lost my love, he said,
She is laid in her death-bed:
There is no help for me, poor Corydon.
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