What though I have skill to complain,
Tho' the muses my temples have crown'd,
What tho', when they hear my soft strain,
The virgins sit weeping around?
Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel resign,
Thy false one inclines to a swain,
Whose music is sweeter than thine.

All you, my companions so dear,
Who sorrow to see me betray'd,
Whatever I suffer, forbear,

Forbear to accuse the false maid. Tho' thro' the wide world I shou'd range, 'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly; 'Twas hers to be false and to change, 'Tis mine to be constant and die.

If while my hard fate I sustain,

In her breast any pity is found, Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, And see me laid low in the ground: The last humble boon that I crave,

Is to shade me with cypress and yew; And when she looks down on my grave, Let her own that her shepherd was true.

Then to her new love let her go,

And deck her in golden array; Be finest at every fine show,

1

And frolic it all the long day :
While Colin, forgotten and gone,
No more shall be talk'd of or seen,
Unless when beneath the pale moon,
His ghost shall glide over the green.

[Rowe alludes in this ballad to the Countess Dowager of Warwick, who left him for another swain whose music was sweeter than his own, namely Addison. Dr. Johnson says that the Countess married the poetical Secretary of State on terms "much like those on which a Turkish Princess is espoused, to whom the Sultan is reported to pronounce, Daughter, I give thee this man for thy slave.'" A marriage so unequal made no addition to Addison's happiness.]

MY DAYS HAVE BEEN SO WONDROUS FREE.

DR. PARNELL.

Born 1679-Died 1717.

My days have been so wondrous free,
The little birds that fly

With careless ease from tree to tree,
Were but as bless'd as I.

Ask gliding waters, if a tear

Of mine increas'd their stream?
Or ask the flying gales, if e'er
I lent one sigh to them?

But now my former days retire,
And I'm by beauty caught,
The tender chains of sweet desire
Are fix'd upon my thought.

Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines!
Ye swains that haunt the grove!
Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds!
Ye close retreats of love!

With all of nature, all of art,
Assist the dear design;

O teach a young, unpractis'd heart
To make my Nancy mine!

The very thought of change I hate,
As much as of despair;
Nor ever covet to be great,
Unless it be for her.

'Tis true, the passion in my mind
Is mix'd with soft distress;
Yet while the fair I love is kind,

I cannot wish it less.

WHEN THY BEAUTY APPEARS.

DR. PARNELL.

When thy beauty appears,

In its graces and airs,

All bright as an angel new dropt from the sky;
At distance I gaze, and am aw'd by my fears,
So strangely you dazzle my eye!

But when without art,

Your kind thoughts you impart,

When your love runs in blushes through every vein ; When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in

your heart,

Then I know you're a woman again.

There's a passion and pride

In our sex, she replied,

And thus (might I gratify both) I would do; Still an angel appear to each lover beside, But still be a woman to you.

THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.

On Richmond Hill there lives a lass
More bright than May-day morn,
Whose charms all other maids surpass,
A rose without a thorn.

This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet,
Has won my right good-will;

I'd crowns resign to call her mine,
Sweet lass of Richmond Hill.

Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air,
And wanton thro' the grove,
Oh! whisper to my charming fair,
I die for her I love.

How happy will the shepherd be

Who calls this nymph his own!
Oh! may her choice be fix'd on me,
Mine's fix'd on her alone.

A LOVE SONG IN THE MODERN TASTE.-1733.

DEAN SWIFT.

or

ALEXANDER POPE.

Born 1667-Died 1744. Born 1688-Died 1744.

Fluttering spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid! o'er my heart;
I a slave in thy dominions,
Nature must give way to art.

Mild Arcadians ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days' consuming
All beneath yon flowery rocks.

Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth,
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting tooth.

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers,
Fair Discretion, string the lyre,
Sooth my ever waking numbers,
Bright Apollo lend thy choir.

Gloomy Pluto! king of terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors
Wat'ring soft Elysian plains.