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To Dr. Garth
A SHEPHERD’S boy (he seeks no better name) | |
| Led forth his flocks along the silver Thame, | |
| Where dancing sunbeams on the waters play’d | |
| And verdant alders form’d a quiv’ring shade. | |
| Soft as he mourn’d, the streams forgot to flow, | 5 |
| The flocks around a dumb compassion show, | |
| The Naïads wept in ev’ry wat’ry bower, | |
| And Jove consented in a silent shower. | |
| Accept, O Garth! the Muse’s early lays, | |
| That adds this wreath of ivy to thy bays; | 10 |
| Hear what from love unpractis’d hearts endure, | |
| From love, the sole disease thou canst not cure. | |
| Ye shady beeches, and ye cooling streams, | |
| Defence from Phœbus’, not from Cupid’s beams, | |
| To you I mourn; nor to the deaf I sing: | 15 |
| The woods shall answer, and their echo ring. | |
| The hills and rocks attend my doleful lay, | |
| Why art thou prouder and more hard than they? | |
| The bleating sheep with my complaints agree, | |
| They parch’d with heat, and I inflamed by thee. | 20 |
| The sultry Sirius burns the thirsty plains, | |
| While in thy heart eternal Winter reigns. | |
| Where stray ye, Muses! in what lawn or grove, | |
| While your Alexis pines in hopeless love? | |
| In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides, | 25 |
| Or else where Cam his winding vales divides? | |
| As in the crystal spring I view my face, | |
| Fresh rising blushes paint the wat’ry glass; | |
| But since those graces please thy eyes no more, | |
| I shun the fountains which I sought before. | 30 |
| Once I was skill’d in ev’ry herb that grew, | |
| And ev’ry plant that drinks the morning dew; | |
| Ah, wretched shepherd, what avails thy art, | |
| To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart! | |
| Let other swains attend the rural care, | 35 |
| Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces shear: | |
| But nigh you mountain let me tune my lays, | |
| Embrace my love, and bind my brows with bays. | |
| That flute is mine which Colin’s tuneful breath | |
| Inspired when living, and bequeath’d in death: | 40 |
| He said, ‘Alexis, take this pipe, the same | |
| That taught the groves my Rosalinda’s name.’ | |
| But now the reeds shall hang on yonder tree, | |
| Forever silent, since despised by thee. | |
| Oh! were I made by some transforming power | 45 |
| The captive bird that sings within thy bower! | |
| Then might my voice thy list’ning ears employ, | |
| And I those kisses he receives enjoy. | |
| And yet my numbers please the rural throng, | |
| Rough satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the song; | 50 |
| The nymphs, forsaking ev’ry cave and spring, | |
| Their early fruit and milk-white turtles bring; | |
| Each am’rous nymph prefers her gifts in vain. | |
| On you their gifts are all bestow’d again. | |
| For you the swains the fairest flowers design, | 55 |
| And in one garland all their beauties join; | |
| Accept the wreath which you deserve alone, | |
| In whom all beauties are comprised in one. | |
| See what delights in sylvan scenes appear! | |
| Descending Gods have found Elysium here. | 60 |
| In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray’d, | |
| And chaste Diana haunts the forest-shade. | |
| Come, lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours, | |
| When swains from shearing seek their nightly bowers; | |
| When weary reapers quit the sultry field, | 65 |
| And, crown’d with corn, their thanks to Ceres yield. | |
| This harmless grove no lurking viper hides, | |
| But in my breast the serpent Love abides. | |
| Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew, | |
| But your Alexis knows no sweets but you. | 70 |
| O deign to visit our forsaken seats, | |
| The mossy fountains, and the green retreats! | |
| Where’er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade; | |
| Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade; | |
| Where’er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise, | 75 |
| And all things flourish where you turn your eyes. | |
| O! how I long with you to pass my days, | |
| Invoke the Muses, and resound your praise! | |
| Your praise the birds shall chant in ev’ry grove, | |
| And winds shall waft it to the powers above. | 80 |
| But would you sing, and rival Orpheus’ strain, | |
| The wond’ring forests soon should dance again; | |
| The moving mountains hear the powerful call, | |
| And headlong streams hang list’ning in their fall! | |
| But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat, | 85 |
| The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat, | |
| To closer shades the panting flocks remove: | |
| Ye Gods! and is there no relief for love? | |
| But soon the sun with milder rays descends | |
| To the cool ocean, where his journey ends. | 90 |
| On me Love’s fiercer flames forever prey, | |
| By night he scorches, as he burns by day. | |
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