« НазадПродовжити »
In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye His airy harp shall now be laid,
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering dear? That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
With him, sweet bard, may fancy die, May love through life the soothing shade.
And joy desert the blooming year.
Silent nymph, with curious eye! Who, the purple evening, lie On the mountain's lonely van, Beyond the noise of busy man ; Painting fair the form of things, While the yellow linnet sings; Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the forest with her tale; Come, with all thy various hues, Come, and aid thy sister Muse; Now, while Phæbus riding high, Gires lustre to the land and sky! Grongar Hill invites my song, Draw the landscape bright and strong; Grongar, in whose mossy cells, Sweetly musing, quiet dwells; Grongar, in whose silent shade, For the modest Muses made, So oft I have, the evening still, At the fountain of a rill, Sat upon a flowery bed, With my hand beneath my head; While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood, Over mead, and over wood, From house to house, from hill to hill, Till contemplation had her fill.
About his chequer'd sides I wind,
and grottoes where I lay,
Now I gain the mountain's brow,
Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly towering in the skies!
Below me trees unnumber'd rise,
And see the rivers how they run,
Thus she dresses green and gay,
And never covet what I see : To disperse our cares away.
Content me with an humble shade, Ever charming, ever new,
My passions tam'd, my wishes laid; When will the landscape tire the view !
For, while our wishes wildly roll, The fountain's fall, the river's flow,
We banish quiet from the soul : The woody vallies, warm and low;
'Tis thus the busy beat the air, The windy summit, wild and high,
And misers gather wealth and care. Roughly rushing on the sky!
Now, ev'n now, my joys run high, The pleasant seat, the ruin's tower,
As on the mountain-turf I lie; The naked rock, the shady bower;
While the wanton zephyr sings, The town and village, dome and farm,
And in the vale perfumes his wings; Each give each a double charm,
While the waters murmur deep; As pearls upon an Æthiop's arm.
While the shepherd charms his sheep; See on the mountain's southern side,
While the birds unbounded fly, Where the prospect opens wide,
And with music fill the sky, Where the evening gilds the tide;
Now, ev'n now, my joys run high. How close and small the hedges lie !
Be full, ye courts; be great who will; What streaks of meadows cross the eye!
Search for peace with all your
skill: A step methinks may pass the stream,
Open wide the lofty door, So little distant dangers seem;
Seek her on the marble floor. So we mistake the future's face,
In vain you search, she is not there; Ey'd through hope's deluding glass,
In vain ye search the domes of care! As yon summits, soft and fair,
Grass and flowers quiet treads, Clad in colours of the air,
On the meads and mountain-heads, Which, to those that journey near,
Along with pleasure, close ally'd, Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Ever by each other's side: Still we tread the same coarse way,
And often, by the murmuring rill, The present's still a cloudy day.
Hears the thrush, while all is still, O may I with myself agree,
the groves of Grongar Hill.
My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottoes are shaded with trees,
And my hilļs are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss,
Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all border'd with moss,
Where the hare-bells and violets grow.
Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay,
Whose flocks never carelessly roam; Should Corydon's happen to stray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home. Allow me to muse and to sigh,
Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was so watchful as I;
I have left my dear Phyllis behind. Now I know what it is, to have strove
With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire. Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each evening repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn :
--I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell. Since Phyllis vouchsaf'd me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vive:
If I knew of a kid that was mine,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before; But now they are past, and I sigh;
And I grieve that I priz’d them no more. But why do I languish in vain;
Why wander thus pensively here? Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear? They tell me, my favourite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown. Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
I could wander with pleasure, alone.
What anguish I felt at my heart:
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart. She gaz’d, as I slowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly discern; So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return. The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far-distant shrine, If he bear but a relique away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: Not a beech's more beautiful green,
But a sweetbriar entwines it around. Not my fields in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold;
But it glitters with fishes of gold.
To the bower I have labour'd to rear;
But I hasted and planted it there. O how sudden the jessamine strove
With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love,
To prune the wild branches away. From the plains, from the woodlands and
From thickets of roses that blow!
Each bird shall harmoniously join
As--she may not be fond to resign.
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed:
She will say 'twas a barbarous deed.
Who could rob a poor bird of its young:
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
How that pity was due toma dove:
And she call'd it the sister of love.
He throws it at Phyllis's feet. But her words such a pleasure convey,
“O Phyllis, he whispers, more fair, So much I her accents adore,
More sweet than the jessamine's flower! Let her speak, and whatever she say,
What are pinks in a morn, to compare? Methinks I should love her the more.
What is eglantine after a shower? Can a bosom so gentle remain
Then the lily no longer is white, Unmov’d, when her Corydon sighs !
Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom, Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
Then the violets die with despight, These plains and this valley despise ?
And the woodbines give up their perfume." Dear regions of silence and shade!
Thus glide the soft numbers along, Soft scenes of contentment and ease!
And he fancies no shepherd his peer; Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,
-Yet I never should envy the song, If aught in her absence could please.
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear. But where does my Phyllida stray ?
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound, And where are her grots and her bowers ?
So Phyllis the trophy despise : Are the groves and the vallies as gay,
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd, And the shepherds as gentle as ours ?
So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes. The groves may perhaps be as fair,
The language that flows from the heart, And the face of the vallies as fine;
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue; The swains may in manners compare,
-Yet may she beware of his art,
Or sure I must envy the song.
Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay, Why term it a folly to grieve ?
And take no more heed of my sheep: Ere I show you the charms of my love;
They have nothing to do but to stray; She is fairer than you can believe.
I have nothing to do but to weep. With her mien she enamours the brave;
Yet do not my folly reprove ; With her wit she engages the free ;
She was fair-and my passion begun; With her modesty pleases the grave;
She smil'd--and I could not but love; She is every way pleasing to me.
She is faithless and I am undone. O you that have been of her train,
Perhaps I was void of all thought: Come and join in my amorous lays ;
Perhaps it was plain to foresee, I could lay down my life for the swain,
That a nymph so complete would be sought That will sing but a song in her praise.
By a swain more engaging than me. When he sings, may the nymphs of the town Ah! love every hope can inspire ; Come trooping, and listen the while;
It banishes wisdom the while; Nay, on him let not Phyllida frown;
And the lip of the nymph we admire - But I cannot allow her to smile.
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile. For when Paridel tries in the dance
She is faithless, and I am undone; Any favour with Phyllis to find,
Ye that witness the woes I endure, O how, with one trivial glance,
Let reason instruct you to shun Might she ruin the peace of my mind!
What it cannot instruct you to cure. In ringlets he dresses his hair,
Beware how you loiter in vain And his crook is bestudded around;
Amid nymphs of an higher degree: And his pipe-oh my Phyllis beware
It is not for me to explain Of a magic there is in the sound.
How fair, and how fickle, they be. 'Tis his with mock passion to glow,
Alas! from the day that we met, "Tis his in smooth tales to unfold,
What hope of an end to my
woes? 6 How her face is as bright as the snow,
When I cannot endure to forget And her bosom, be sure, is as cold.
The glance that undid my repose. How the nightingales labour the strain,
Yet time may diminish the pain : With the notes of his charmer to vie;
The flower, and the shrub, and the tree, How they vary their accents in vain,
Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, Repine at her triumphs, and die.”
In time may have comfort for me. To the grove or the garden he strays,
The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose, And pillages every sweet;
The sound of a murmuring stream, Then suiting the wreath to his lays,
The peace which from solitude flows,