IV. DISAPPOINTMENT.

I.

E fhepherds give ear to my lay,

YE

And take no more heed of my sheep;

They have nothing to do but to ftray;
I have nothing to do but to weep.
Yet do not my folly reprove;

She was fair

She is faithlefs

She fmil'd.

and my paffion begun ;

and I could not but love;

-and I am undone.

II.

Perhaps I was void of all thought;

Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
That a nymph fo complete would be fought
By a fwain more engaging than me.
Ah! love ev'ry hope can infpire:

It banishes wisdom the while

e;

And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.

III.

She is faithlefs, and I am undone;

Ye that witnefs the woes I endure,
Let Reafon inftru&t you to fhun
What it cannot inftruct you to cure.

Beware

Amid nymphs of an higher degree:

It is not for me to explain

How fair and how fickle they be.

IV.

Alas! from the day that we met,
What hope of an end to my woes?
When I cannot endure to forget

The glance that undid my repose.
Yet time may diminish the pain:

The flow'r, and the fhrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure, in vain, In time may have comfort for me.

V.

The fweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,
The found of a murmuring ftream,
The peace which from folitude flows,
Henceforth fhall be Corydon's theme.
High transports are fhewn to the fight,
But we are not to find them our own;

Fate never beftow'd fuch delight,
As I with my Phyllis had known.

VI.

O ye woods, fpread your branches apace;
To your deepest recesses I fly;

I would hide with the beafts of the chace;

I would vanish from every eye.

Yet my reed shall refound thro' the grove

With the fame fad complaint it begun ; How the fmil'd, and I could not but love; Was faithlefs, and I am undone !

PHOEBE.

PHOEBE. A PASTORAL.

This, by Dr. Byron, is a better effort than the preceding.

I.

Y time, O ye Mufes! was happily spent,

My

When Phoebe went with me wherever I went: Ten thoufand foft pleasures I felt in my breast: Sure never fond fhepherd like Colin was bleft. But now fhe is gone, and has left me behind, What a marvellous change, on a fudden, I find? When things were as fine as cou'd pottibly be, I thought it was Spring; but, alas! it was fhe.

II.

The fountain, that wont to run fweetly along,
And dance to foft murmurs the pebbles among,
Thou know'ft, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there,
It was pleasure to look at, 'twas mufic to hear.
But, now she is abfent, I walk by its fide,
And, ftill as it murmurs, do nothing but chide:
Muft you be fo chearful, whilst I go in pain?

Peace, there, with your bubbling, and hear me

complain.

III.

My dog I was ever well pleased to see

Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me;

And

And Phoebe was pleas'd too, and to my dog faid,

Come hither, poor fellow;" and patted his head. But, now, when he's fawning, I, with a four look, Cry, "Sirrah," and give him a blow with my crook: And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray Be dull as his mafter, when Phoebe's away?

IV..

Sweet music went with us both all the wood thro', The Lark, Linnet, Throftle, and Nightingale too; Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grafhopper under our feet. But now she is absent, tho' still they fing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone : Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gives every thing else its agreeable found.

V.

Will no pitying power that hears me complain, Or cure my difquiet, or foften my pain?

To be cur'd, thou muft, Collin, thy paffion remove :
But what fwain is fo filly to live without love?
No, Deity, bid the dear nymph to return;

For ne'er was poor fhepherd fo fadly forlorn.
Ah! what fhall I do? I fhall die with despair:
Take heed, all ye fwains, how you love one fo fair.

A SONG.