« AnteriorContinuar »
To heaven she turns in deep despair,
Lise, sill'd with gries's distresssul train,
Parent os virtue, is thine ear
Is now the pity-streaming tear
Indulge my votive strain, O sweet Humanity! THE NIGHTINGALE.
As Phœbus darted sorth his milder ray,
And length'ning shades consess'd the short'ning day;
To Tiber's banks repair'd an am'rous swain,
The love and envy os the neighb'ring plain,
To cool his heat, he sought the breezy grove;
To cool his heat, but more the heat os love:
To sooth his cares on the sost lute be play'd;
But the sost lute resreshed the lovely maid;
Conspiring elm6 their umbrage shed around,
Wav'd with applause, and listen'd to the sound.
Sweet Philomel, the chorister os love,
The musical enchantress os the grove,
With wonder heard tlie shepherd as he play'd,
And stole, attentive, to the tunesul shade;
Perch'd o'er his head the sylvan Syren sate,
With envy burning, and with pride elate;
Ambitioufly she lent a list'ning ear,
Charm'd with the very sounds she dy'd to hear:
Each note, each flowing accent os the song,
She sooth'd, and sweeten'd with her soster tongue;
Gently resin'd each imitated strain,
And paid him with his harmony again.
The shepherd wonder'd at the just replies,
At sirst mistaken sor the vocal breeze;
But when he sound his little rival near
Imbibing music both at eye and ear,
With a sublimer touch he swept the lute,
A summons to the musical dispute;
The summons she receiv'd, resolv'd to try,
And daring, warbled out a bold reply.
Now sweetest thoughts the gentle swain inspire,
And with a dying sostness tune the lyre,
Echo the vernal music os the woods,
Warble the murmurs os the salling sloods;
Thus sweet he sings, but sweetly sings in vain,
For Philomela breathes a softer strain ;.
With easier art she modulates each note,
More nat'ral music melting in her throat:
Much he admir'd the magic os her tongue,
But more to sind his lute and art outdone.
And now to lostier airs he tunes the strings
And now to lostier airs his echo sings;
Though loud as thunder, though as swist as thought,
She reach'd the swelling, caught the flying note;
In trembling treble, now in solemn base,
She show'd how nature could his art surpass.
Amaz'd, at length with rage the shepherd burn'd.
His admiration into anger turn'd;
Inflam'd, with emulating pride he stood,
And thus desy'd the charmer os the wood:
And wilt thou still my music immitate}
Dying she sell, and as the strains expire,
DAY: A PASTORAL.
In the barn the tenant cock,
Close to partlet perch'd on high, Briskly crows (the shepherd's clock!)
Jocund that the morning's nigh.
Swistly srom the mountain's brow,
Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire: And the peeping sun-beam now
Paints with-gold the village spire.
Philomel sorsakes the thorn,