Though now fublimely borne on Homer's wing,
Of glorious wars, and godlike chiefs she fing:
Wilt thou with me re-vifit once again
The crystal fountain, and the flow'ry plain?
Wilt thou, indulgent, hear my verfe relate
The various changes of a lover's state;
And while each turn of paffion I pursue,
Afk thy own heart if what I tell be true?
To the green margin of a lonely wood,
Whose pendent fhades o'erlook'd a filver flood,
Young Damon came, unknowing where he stray'd,
Full of the image of his beauteous maid:
His flock far off, unfed, untended lay,
To every favage a defenceless prey ;
No fenfe of int'reft could their mafter move;
And every care feem'd trifling now but Love.
Awhile in penfive filence he remain'd,
But tho' his voice was mute, his looks complain'd;
At length the thoughts within his bofom pent,
Forc'd his unwilling tongue to give them vent.
Ye Nymphs, he cry'd, ye Dryads, who fo long Have favour'd Damon, and inspir'd his fong; For whom, retir'd, I fhun the gay reforts Of fportful cities, and of pompous courts;
In vain I bid the restless world adieu,
To feek tranquillity and peace with you.
Though wild Ambition and deftructive Rage
No Factions here can form, no Wars can wage;
Though Envy frowns not on your humble shades,
Nor Calumny your innocence invades,
Yet cruel Love, that troubler of the breast,
Too often violates your boafted reft;
With inbred storms disturbs your calm retreat,
And taints with bitterness each rural sweet.
Ah lucklefs day! when firft with fond furprize
On Delia's face I fix'd my eager eyes;
Then in wild tumults all my foul was toft,
Then reason, liberty, at once were loft:
And every wish, and thought, and care was gone,
But what my heart employ'd on her alone.
Then too she smil'd: can fmiles our peace deftroy,
Those lovely children of Content and Joy?
How can foft pleasure and tormenting woe,
From the fame spring at the fame moment flow?
Unhappy boy, these vain enquiries cease,
Thought could not guard, nor will restore thy peace:
Indulge the frenzy that thou must endure,
And footh the pain thou know'st not how to cure.
Come, flatt'ring Memory, and tell my heart
How kind she was, and with what pleasing art
She ftrove its fondest wishes to obtain,
Confirm her pow'r, and faster bind my chain.
If on the green we danc'd, a mirthful band,
To me alone she gave her willing hand;
Her partial tafte, if e'er I touch'd the lyre,
Still in my song found fomething to admire.
By none but her my crook with flow'rs was crown'd,
By none but her my brows with ivy bound:
The world that Damon was her choice believ'd,
The world, alas! like Damon, was deceiv'd.
When last I saw her, and declar'd
my fire,
In words as foft as paffion could inspire,
Coldly fhe heard, and full of scorn withdrew,
Without one pitying glance, one fweet adieu.
The frighted hind, who fees his ripen'd corn
Up from the roots by fudden tempests torn,
Whose faireft hopes destroy'd and blasted lie,
Feels not so keen a pang of grief as I.
Ah! how have I deserv'd, inhuman maid,
To have my faithful fervice thus repay'd?
Were all the marks of kindness I receiv'd,
But dreams of joy, that charm'd me and deceiv'd?
Or did you only nurse my growing love,
That with more pain I might your hatred prove?
Sure guilty treachery no place could find
In fuch a gentle, fuch a gen'rous mind:
A maid brought up the woods and wilds among,
Could ne'er have learnt the art of courts fo young:
No; let me rather think her anger feign'd,
Still let me hope my Delia may be gain'd;
'Twas only modesty that seem'd disdain,
And her heart fuffer'd when she gave me pain.
Pleas'd with this flatt'ring thought the love-fick boy
Felt the faint dawnings of a doubtful joy;
Back to his flock more chearful he return'd,
When now the setting fun lefs fiercely burn'd;
Blue vapours rofe along the mazy rills,
And light's last blushes ting'd the distant hills.
Ear, DODDINGTON, the notes that fhepherds fing,
Notes foft as those of nightingales in fpring:
Nor Pan, nor Phoebus tune the shepherd's reed;
From Love alone our tender lays proceed:
Love warms our fancy with enliv'ning fires,
Refines our genius, and our verse inspires:
From him Theocritus, on Enna's plains,
Learnt the wild fweetness of his Doric ftrains;
Virgil by him was taught the moving art,
That charm'd each ear, and foften'd every heart:
O would'st thou quit the pride of courts, and deign
To dwell with us upon the vocal plain,
Thee too his pow'r should reach, and
every fhade
Refound the praises of thy fav'rite maid;
Thy pipe our rural concert would improve,
And we should learn of thee to please and love.
Damon no longer fought the filent shade,
No more in unfrequented paths he stray'd,
|