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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.”

Rowe.

As on a summer's day
In the greenwood shade I lay,

The maid that I lov'd,

As her fancy mov’d,
Came walking forth that way.

And

And as she passed by,
With a scornful glance of her eye,

" What a shame," quoth she,

66 For a swain must it be, Like a lazy loon for to lie !

And dost thou nothing heed
What Pan our god has decreed ;

That a prize today
Shall be given away
To the sweetest shepherd's reed?

“ There's not a single swain Of all this fruitful plain,

But with hopes and fears

Now busily prepares
The bonny boon to gain.

6 Shall another maiden shine
In brighter array than thine?

Up, up, dull swain,

Tune thy pipe once again, And make the garland mine."

66 Alas!

1

“ Alas! my love,” I cried,
" What avails this courtly pride?

Since thy dear desert

Is written in my heart,
What is all the world beside?

66 To me thou art more gay
In this homely russet gray,

Than the nymphs of our green,

So trim and so sheen,
Or the brightest queen of May.

" What tho' my fortune frown,
And deny thee a silken gown;

My own dear maid,

Be content with this shade
And a shepherd all thy own."

Rowe.

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

All restless and painful my Celia now lies,
And counts the sad moments of time as it flies.
To the nymph, my heart's love, ye soft slumbers, repair,
Spread your downy wings o'er her, and make her your care;
Let me be left restless, mine eyes never close,
So the sleep that I lose give my dear-one repose.
Sweet stream ! if you chance by her pillow to creep,
Perhaps your soft murmurs may lull her to sleep.
But if I am doom'd to be wretched indeed,
And the loss of my charmer the fates have decreed,
If no more my sad heart by those eyes shall be cheerd;
If the voice of my warbler no more shall be heard ;
Believe me, thou fair-one, thou dear-one, believe,
Few sighs to thy loss, and few tears will I give;
One fate to thy Colin and thee shall betide,
And soon lay thy shepherd down by thy cold side.
Then glide, gentle brook, and to lose thyself haste,
Fade thou, too, my willow; this verse is my last :

Ah willow ! willow! Ah willow! willow !"*

Rowe.

* 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.

DAPHNIS

DAPHNIS

APHNIS stood pensive in the shade, ,

With arms across, and head reclined ;
Pale looks accused the cruel maid,

And sighs relieved his love-sick mind :
His tuneful pipe all broken lay,
Looks, sighs, and actions seem'd to say,

“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 ? "

C

66 How

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