4 Soon will the sun's returning rays
The cheerless frost control;
When will relenting Delia chase
The winter of my soul?
1 By the side of a grove, at the foot of a hill,
Where whisper'd the beech, and where murmur'd the rill,
I vow'd to the Muses my time and my care,
Since neither could win me the smiles of my fair.
2 Free I ranged like the birds, like the birds free I sung, And Delia's loved name scarce escaped from my tongue; But if once a smooth accent delighted my ear,
I should wish, unawares, that my Delia might hear.
3 With fairest ideas my bosom I stored,
Allusive to none but the nymph I adored;
And the more I, with study, my fancy refined,
The deeper impression she made on my mind.
4 So long as of Nature the charms I pursue,
I still must my Delia's dear image renew;
The Graces have yielded with Delia to rove,
And the Muses are all in alliance with Love.
1 "See, Daphne, see!" Florelio cried,
And learn the sad effects of pride;
Yon shelter'd rose, how safe conceal'd!
How quickly blasted when reveal'd!
2 "The sun with warm attractive rays
Tempts it to wanton in the blaze;
A gale succeeds from eastern skies,
And all its blushing radiance dies.
3" So you, my Fair! of charms divine,
Will quit the plains, too fond to shine
Where Fame's transporting rays allure,
Though here more happy, more secure.
4 "The breath of some neglected maid
Shall make you sigh you left the shade;
A breath to beauty's bloom unkind,
As, to the rose, an eastern wind."
5 The nymph replied!" You first, my Swain!
Confine your sonnets to the plain;
One envious tongue alike disarms
You of your wit, me of my charms.
6 "What is, unknown, the poet's skill?
Or what, unheard, the tuneful thrill?
What, unadmired, a charming mien?
Or what the rose's blush unseen?"
1 Ye birds! for whom I rear'd the grove,
With melting lay salute my love;
My Daphne with your notes detain,
Or I have rear'd my grove in vain.
2 Ye flowers! before her footsteps rise: Display at once your brightest dyes; That she your opening charms may see, Or what are all your charms to me?
3 Kind Zephyr! brush each fragrant flower,
And shed its odours round my bower;
Or never more, O gentle Wind!
Shall I from thee refreshment find.
4 Ye Streams! if e'er your banks I loved, If e'er your native sounds improved, May each soft murmur soothe my fair, Or oh! 'twill deepen my despair.
5 And thou, my Grot! whose lonely bounds The melancholy pine surrounds,
May Daphne praise thy peaceful gloom,
Or thou shalt prove her Damon's tomb.
WRITTEN IN A COLLECTION OF BACCHANALIAN SONGS.
1 Adieu, ye jovial Youths! who join
To plunge old Care in floods of wine;
And, as your dazzled eyeballs roll,
Discern him struggling in the bowl.
2 Nor yet is hope so wholly flown,
Nor yet is thought so tedious grown,
But limpid stream and shady tree
Retain, as yet, some sweets for me.
3 And see, through yonder silent grove,
See, yonder does my Daphne rove!
With pride her footsteps I pursue,
And bid your frantic joys adieu.
4 The sole confusion I admire,
Is that my Daphne's eyes inspire;
I scorn the madness you approve,
And value reason next to love.
IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.
1 Yes, these are the scenes where with Iris I stray'd,
But short was her sway for so lovely a maid!
In the bloom of her youth to a cloister she run,
In the bloom of her graces too fair for a nun!
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove,
So fatal to beauty, so killing to love!
2 Yes, these are the meadows, the shrubs, and the plains,
Once the scene of my pleasures, the scene of my pains;
How many soft moments I spent in this grove!
How fair was my nymph! and how fervent my love!
Be still though, my Heart! thine emotion give o'er;
Remember, the season of love is no more.
3 With her how I stray'd amid fountains and bowers!
Or loiter'd behind, and collected the flowers!
Then breathless with ardour my fair one pursued,
And to think with what kindness my garland she view'd!
But be still, my fond Heart! this emotion give o'er;
Fain wouldst thou forget thou must love her no more.
1 When bright Ophelia treads the green,
In all the pride of dress and mien;
Averse to freedom, mirth and play,
The lofty rival of the day;
Methinks, to my enchanted eye,
The lilies droop, the roses die.
2 But when, disdaining art. the fair
Assumes a soft engaging air;
Mild as the opening morn of May,
And as the feather'd warblers gay;
The scene improves where'er she goes,
More sweetly smile the pink and rose.
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