SONG XVIII. Imitated from the FRENCH.
WES, these are the scenes where with Iris I ftray'd
But short was her fway for fo lovely a maid!
In the bloom of her youth to a cloyfter fhe run;
In the bloom of her graces, too fair for a nun!
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove
So fatal to beauty, fo killing to love!
Yes, these are the meadows, the shrubs and the plains;
Once the scene of my pleasures, the scene of my pains;
How many foft moments I spent in this grove!
How fair was my nymph! and how fervent my love!
Be ftill tho', my heart! thine emotion give o'er;
Remember, the feafon of love is no more.
With her how I ftray'd amid fountains and bow'rs,
Or loiter'd behind and collected the flow'rs!
Then breathlefs with ardor my fair-one purfu'd,
And to think with what kindness my garland fhe view'd!
But be ftill, my fond heart! this emotion give o'er;
Fain wouldst thou forget thou must love her no more.
HY o'er the verdant banks of ooze
Does yonder halcyon speed fo faft; 'Tis all because fhe would not lofe Her fav'rite calm that will not last.
The fun with azure paints the skies,
The ftream reflects each flow'ry spray;
And frugal of her time, fhe flies
To take her fill of love and play.
See her, when rugged Boreas blows,
Warm in fome rocky cell remain;
To seek for pleasure, well she knows,
Would only then enhance the pain.
Defcend, fhe cries, thou hated show'r,
Deform my limpid waves to-day,
For I have chose a fairer hour
To take my fill of love and play.
You too, my SILVIA, fure will own
Life's azure seasons swiftly roll:
And when our youth, or health is flown,
To think of love but shocks the foul.
Could DAMON but deferve thy charms,
As thou art DAMON's only theme;
He'd fly as quick to DELIA's arms,
As yonder halcyon fkims the stream.
O Lucio is to me,
So dear my minds and tempers
So well our minds and tempers blend;
That feafons may for ever flee,
And ne'er divide me from my friend;
But let the favour'd boy forbear
To tempt with love my only fair.
O LYCON, born when every muse,
When every grace benignant fmil'd,
With all a parent's breast could chufe
To blefs her lov'd, her only child; 'Tis thine, fo richly grac'd to prove More noble cares, than cares of love.
Together we from early youth
Have trod the flowery tracks of time, Together mus'd in fearch of truth,
O'er learned fage, or bard fublime; And well thy cultur'd breast I know, What wonderous treafure it can fhow.
Come then, refume thy charming lyre,
And fing fome patriot's worth fublime,
Whilft I in fields of foft defire,
Confume my fair and fruitless prime';
Whofe reed afpires but to display
The flame that burns me night and day.
O come! the dryads of the woods
Shall daily foothe thy ftudious mind,
The blue-ey'd nymphs of yonder floods
Shall meet and court thee to be kind;
And fame fits liftening for thy lays
To fwell her trump with Lucro's praife.
Like me, the plover fondly tries
To lure the sportsman from her nest,
And flutt'ring on with anxious cries,
Too plainly fhews her tortur'd breast:
O let him, confcious of her care,
Pity her pains, and learn to fpare.
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