Now, to relieve her growing fear, That feels the haunted moment near When ghosts in chains the churchyard walk, She tries to steal the time by talk; But hark! the church clock swings around With a dead pause each sullen sound, And tells the midnight hour is come That wraps the groves in spectred gloom! To issue from beneath the thatch, With trembling hand she lifts the latch, And steps, as creaks the feeble door, With cautious feet the threshold o'er ; Lest, stumbling on the horseshoe dim, Dire spells unsinew every limb.
Lo! shuddering at the solemn deed, She scatters round the magic seed, And thrice repeats, The seed I sow, My true love's sithe the crop shall mow.' Straight, as her frame fresh horrors freeze, Her true love with his sithe she sees.
And next she seeks the yew-tree shade, Where he who died for love is laid; There binds, upon the verdant sod By many a moonlight fairy trod, The cowslip and the lily wreath
She wove, her hawthorn hedge beneath:
And, whispering, Ah, may Colin prove
As constant as thou wast to love!'
Kisses, with pale lip, full of dread,
The turf that hides his clay-cold head!
Then, homeward, as through rustling trees
She hears a shriek in every breeze,
In forms her flutter'd spirits give,
Each twinkling leaf appears to live.
At length, her lovesick projects tried,
She gains her cot the lea beside;
And on her pillow sinks to rest,
With dreams of constant Colin bless'd;
While, east along, the ruddy streak
Colours the shadows at daybreak!
Such are the phantoms love can raise ;
At first his gradual ardour strays
O'er the young virgin's thrilling frame;
A sweet delirium in the flame!
Her bosom's gently rising swell
And purple light the tumult tell-
The melting blush upon her cheek,
The sigh, the glance her passion speak!
And now, some favourite object near,
She feels the throb of hope and fear;
And, all unknowing to conceal
The ingenuous soul by fashion's veil,
Tries every art to feed her fires,
That fond credulity inspires.
Nor love alone, in vernal youth,
Bids airy fancy mimic truth:
The villager, or maid or wife,
Each dear deception owns through life:
Whether, as superstitions sway,
O'er upland dews she shapes her way,
Hailing, on Easter's holy morn,
The spotless lamb through ether borne,
Which her adoring eyes behold
Mid orient skies, bedropp'd with gold;
Or whether, if disease assail
In shape of shivering tertian pale,
For Tray, what time the fit began,
She breaks the salted cake of bran,
Transferring with the charmed bit
To fawning Tray her ague fit;
Or, as the recent grave she delves
(Ere dawn dissolves the circling elves),
Where the last youth was lock'd in sleep,
The sacred salt she buries deep-
Thus nine times (no companion nigh
To cheer the night-enveloped sky)
Revisiting the charnel ground,
'Her tongue chain'd up without a sound.'
"Tis thus fantastic visions rise
To cheat the' unweeting damsel's eyes!
Nor bending age nor pining want
The fairy prospect disenchant!
But, stored with many a trancing charm,
A thousand phantoms round her swarm;
Till now the villagers, o'erawed,
Her various feats in wonder laud;
And, arm'd with her associate switch,
She dwindles to a wither'd witch!
IF we, O Dorset, quit the city throng,
To meditate in shades the rural song,
By your command, be present; and, O bring
The Muse along! The Muse to you shall sing:
Her influence, Buckhurst, let me there obtain,
And I forgive the famed Sicilian swain.
Begin. In unluxurious times of yore,
When flocks and herds were no inglorious store,
Lobbin, a shepherd boy, one evening fair,
As western winds had cool'd the sultry air,
His number'd sheep within the fold now pent,
Thus plain'd him of his dreary discontent;
Beneath a hoary poplar's whispering boughs,
He solitary sat to breathe his vows,
Venting the tender anguish of his heart,
As passion taught, in accents free of art:
And little did he hope, while night by night
His sighs were lavish'd thus on Lucy bright:
C Ah, well-a-day! how long must I endure
This pining pain, or who shall speed my cure?
Fond love no cure will have, seek no repose,
Delights in grief, nor any measure knows:
And now the moon begins in clouds to rise;
The brightening stars increase within the skies;
The winds are hush; the dews distil; and sleep
Hath closed the eyelids of my weary sheep:
I only, with the prowling wolf, constrain'd
All night to wake: with hunger he is pain'd,
And I with love. His hunger he may tame;
But who can quench, O cruel Love, thy flame?
Whilom did I, all as this poplar fair,
Upraise my heedless head, then void of care,
'Mong rustic routs the chief of wanton game:
Nor could they merry make till Lobbin came.
Who better seen than I in shepherds' arts,
To please the lads, and win the lasses' hearts!
How deftly, to mine oaten reed so sweet,
Wont they upon the green to shift their feet!
And, wearied in the dance, how would they yearn
Some well devised tale from me to learn!
For many songs and tales of mirth had I,
To chase the loitering sun adown the sky:
But, ah! since Lucy coy deep wrought her spite Within my heart, unmindful of delight,
The jolly grooms I fly, and, all alone,
To rocks and woods pour forth my fruitless moan.
Oh! quit thy wonted scorn, relentless fair!
Ere, lingering long, I perish through despair.
Had Rosalind been mistress of my mind, [kind.
Though not so fair, she would have proved more
O, think, unwitting maid, while yet is time,
How flying years impair thy youthful prime!
Thy virgin bloom will not for ever stay,
And flowers, though left ungather'd, will decay :
The flowers, anew, returning seasons bring;
But beauty faded has no second spring.
My words are wind! She, deaf to all my cries,
Takes pleasure in the mischief of her eyes.
Like frisking heifer, loose in flowery meads,
She gads where'er her roving fancy leads;
Yet still from me. Ah me, the tiresome chase!
Shy as the fawn, she flies my fond embrace.
She flies, indeed, but ever leaves behind,
Fly where she will, her likeness in my mind.
No cruel purpose, in my speed, I bear;
'Tis only love; and love why shouldst thou fear?
What idle fears a maiden breast alarm!
Stay, simple girl: a lover cannot harm..
Two sportive kidlings, both fair fleck'd, I rear;
Whose shooting horns like tender buds appear:
A lambkin too, of spotless fleece, I breed,
And teach the fondling from my hand to feed:
Nor will I cease betimes to cull the fields
Of every dewy sweet the morning yields :
From early spring to autumn late shalt thou
Receive gay girlonds, blooming o'er thy brow :
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