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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 tri
66 Then to her new love let her go,
And deck her in golden array, Be finest at every fine show,
And frolic it all the long day : While Colin, forgotten and gone,
No more shall be heard of or seen, Unless when beneath the pale moon
His ghost shall glide over the green.”
As on a summer's day
The maid that I lov'd,
As her fancy mov’d,
And as she passed by,
" What a shame," quoth she,
66 For a swain must it be, Like a lazy loon for to lie !
And dost thou nothing heed
That a prize today
“ There's not a single swain Of all this fruitful plain,
But with hopes and fears
Now busily prepares
6 Shall another maiden shine
Up, up, dull swain,
Tune thy pipe once again, And make the garland mine."
“ Alas! my love,” I cried,
Since thy dear desert
Is written in my heart,
66 To me thou art more gay
Than the nymphs of our green,
So trim and so sheen,
" What tho' my fortune frown,
My own dear maid,
Be content with this shade
To the brook and the willow that heard him complain,
Ah willow! willow ! Poor Colin went weeping, and told them his pain. “Sweet stream,” he cried, “ sadly I'll teach thee to flow, And the waters shall rise to the brink with my woe.
All restless and painful my Celia now lies,
Ah willow ! willow! Ah willow! willow !"*
* This piece, written by the author on the occasion of the illness of the lady he afterwards married, has all the pathetic of real feeling, though under the garb of pastoral fiction.
APHNIS stood pensive in the shade, ,
With arms across, and head reclined ;
And sighs relieved his love-sick mind :
“My Culoe is unkind.
« Why ring the woods with warbling throats?
Ye larks, ye linnets, cease your strains ; I faintly hear, in your sweet notes,
My Chloe's voice that wakes my pains : Yet why should you your song forbear? Your mates delight your song to hear,
But Chloe mine disdains."
As thus he melancholy stood,
Dejected as the lonely dove, Sweet sounds broke gently through the wood.
“ I feel the sound; my heart-strings move: 'T was not the nightingale that sung ; No, 'tis my Chloe's sweeter tongue,
Hark, hark! what says my love ? "