Alas! from the day that we met, What hope of an end to my woes? When I cannot endure to forget The glance that undid my repose. Yet time may diminish the pain: The flower, the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, In time may have comfort for me. The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose, The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows, Henceforth shall be CORYDON's theme. High transports are shown to the sight, But we are not to find them our own; Fate never bestow'd such delight As I with my PHYLLIS had known. O ye woods, spread your branches apace; I would hide with the beasts of the chase; Yet my reed shall resound thro' the grove With the same sad complaint it begun ; How she smiled, and I could not but love; Was faithless, and I am undone! SHENSTONE. D TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ. COME, shepherds, we'll follow the hearse, And see our loved CORYDON laid: The graces that glow'd in his mind. On purpose he planted yon trees, Ye lambkins, that play'd at his feet, His music was artless and sweet, His manners as mild as your own. No verdure shall cover the vale, No bloom on the blossoms appear; The sweets of the forest shall fail, And winter discolour the year. No No birds in our hedges shall sing, (Our hedges so vocal before) Since he that should welcome the spring His PHYLLIS was fond of his praise, So give me my CORYDON'S flute, And thus-let me break it in twain. CUNNINGHAM. O'ER moorlands and mountains, rude, barren and bare, As wilder'd and wearied I roam, A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair, And leads me o'er lawns to her home: Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crown'd, Green rushes were strew'd on the floor; Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round, And deck'd the sod seats at her door. We sat ourselves down to a cooling repast, I told my soft wishes: she sweetly replied, "I've rich ones rejected, and great ones denied, Yet take me, fond shepherd, I'm thine." Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek, Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills, Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distills, The cottager Peace is well known for her sire, And shepherds have named her CONTENT. CUNNINGHAM MORAL AND MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. No glory I covet, no riches I want, Ambition is nothing to me; The one thing I beg of kind Heaven to grant With passions unruffled, untainted with pride, The wants of my nature are cheaply supplied, The blessings which Providence freely has lent Whilst sweet meditation and cheerful content In the pleasures the great man's possessions display Unenvied I'll challenge my part; For every fair object my eyes can survey Contributes to gladden my heart. How |