Still in my breast one soft desire remains,
Pure as that star, from guilt, from interest free:
Has gentle DELIA trip'd across the plains,

And need I, Florio, name that wish to thee?

While, cloy'd to find the scenes of life the same,
I tune with careless hand my languid lays,
Some secret impulse wakes my former flame,
And fires my strain with hopes of brighter days.

I slept not long beneath yon rural bowers;

And lo! my crook with flowers adorn'd I see : Has gentle DELIA bound my crook with flowers, And need I, Florio, name my hopes to thee?

PERHAPS it is not love (said I)

That melts my soul, when FLAVIA's nigh;
Where wit and sense like her's agree,
One may be pleas'd, and yet be free.

The beauties of her polish'd mind,
It needs no lover's eyes to find;
The hermit, freezing in his cell,
Might wish the gentle FLAVIA well.

'It is not love ;'-averse to bear
The servile chain that lovers wear!
Let, let me all my fears remove,
My doubts dispel—it is not love!

Oh! when did wit so brightly shine
In any form less fair than thine?
It is it is Love's subtle fire;
And under friendship lurks desire!
VOL. II.

с

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

IN FOUR PARTS.

ABSENCE.

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 Phillis 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 Phillis farewell !

Since Phillis vouchsaf'd me a look,

I never once dreamt of my vine;
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine:
I priz'd every hour that went by,

Beyond all that had pleas'd me before; But now they are past, and I sigh;

And I grieve that I priz'd 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 that valley, is flown:
Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
I could wander with pleasure, alone.

When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought-but it might not be so !-
"Twas with pain that she saw me depart:
She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew;

My path I could hardly discern ;
So sweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return.

The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far distant shrine,
If he bear but a relique away,

Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus, widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion I owe;
Soft hope is the relique I bear,

And my solace wherever I go.

HOPE.

My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees;

And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all border'd with moss, Where the hare-bells and violets grow.

Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;
Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a sweet-briar entwines it around:
Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.

One would think, she might like to retire
To the bower I have labour'd to rear:
Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
But I hasted and planted it there!
O how sudden the jessamine strove
With the lilac, to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love,

To prune the wild branches away.

From the plains, from the woodlands, and groves,
What strains of wild melody flow!
How the nightingales warble their loves,
From thickets of roses that blow !
And when her bright form shall appear;
Each bird shall harmoniously join

In a concert so soft and so clear,
As she may not be fond to resign.

I have found out a gift for my fair,

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me that plunder forbear :

She will say, 'twas a barbarous deed!' For he ne'er could be true, she aver'd, Who could rob a poor bird of its young; And I lov'd her the more when I heard

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

I have heard her with sweetness unfold
How that Pity was due to a dove:
That it ever attended the bold;

And she call'd it the sister of Love.
But her words such a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever she say,
Methinks I should love her the more!

Can a bosom, so gentle, remain
Unmov'd when her Corydon sighs?
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
These plains and this valley despise ?
Dear regions of silence and shade!

Soft scenes of contentment and ease!
Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,
If aught in her absence could please.

But where does my Phillida stray?

And where are her grots and her bow'rs? Are the groves and the vallies as gay, And the shepherds as gentle as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair, And the face of the vallies as fine; The swains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mine.

SOLICITUDE.

WHY will you my passion reprove?
Why term it a folly to grieve?
Ere I show you the charms of my love,
She is fairer than you can believe: