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Hark, hark! the horrid sound
And amazed, he stares around.
See the Furies arise,
How they hiss in the air,
Behold a glastly band,
Each a torch in his hand!
And unburied remain,
To the valiant crew :
Thaïs led the way,
To light him to his prey,
Thus, long ago,
And sounding lyre
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove: 'Twas then, by the cave of a mountain reclined,
A Hermit his nightly complaint thus began ; Though mournful his numbers, his heart was resign'd,
He thought as a sage, but he felt as a man:
“ Ah, why thus abandon’d to darkness and woe,
Why thus, Ionely Philomel, flows thy sad strain ? For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet if pity inspire thee, oh! cease not thy lay,
Mourn, sweetest complainer, Man calls thee to mourn : O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away,
Full quickly they pass,—but they never return.
“ Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
The moon half-extinguish'd her crescent displays : But lately I mark’d, when majestic on high,
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendour again.--But man's faded glory no change shall renew,
Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain !
66 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew. Nor yet for the ravagé of winter I mourn;
Kind nature the embryo blossom will save. -But when shall ng visit the mor ering urn?
O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave ?
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 vouchsafed me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine;
If I knew of a kid that was mine.
Beyond all that had pleased me before ; But now they are pass'd, and I sigh ;
And I grieve that I prized 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 the valley, is flown! Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
I could wander with pleasure alone.
When forced the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart. She gazed as I slowly withdrew;
My path I could liardly discern; So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return.