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day the god of fond desire,
Not own it to the lovely maid ?
The shepherd mark'd his treacherous art,
And, softly sighing, thus replied : 'Tis true you have subdued my heart,
But shall not triumph o'er my pride.
The slave in private only bears
Your bondage, who his love conceals ; But when his passion he declares,
You drag him at your chariot-wheels.
HARD is the fate of him who loves,
Yet dares not tell his trembling pain, But to the sympathetic groves,
But to the lonely listening plain.
Oh! when she blesses next your shade,
Oh! when her footsteps next are seen In flowery tracks along the mead,
In fresher mazes o'er the green,
Ye gentle spirits of the vale,
To whom the tears of love are dear, From dying lilies waft a gale,
And sigh my sorrows in her ear.
Oh tell her what she cannot blame,
my tongue must ever bind; Oh tell her that my virtuous flame
Is as her spotless soul refin'd.
Not her own guardian angel eyes
With chaster tenderness his care, Not purer her own wishes rise,
Not holier her own sighs in prayer.
But if, at first, her virgin fear
Should start at love's suspected name, With that of friendship sooth her ear
True love and friendship are the same.
UNLESS with my Amanda blest,
In vain I twine the woodbine bower; Unless to deck her sweeter breast,
In vain I rear the breathing flower.
Awaken’d by the genial year,
In vain the birds around me sing; In vain the freshening fields appear:
Without my love there is no spring.
ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove An unrelenting foe to love, And when we meet a mutual heart, Come in between, and bid us part:
Bid us sigh on from day to day,
But busy busy still art thou,
For once, O Fortune! hear my prayer,
COME, gentle god of soft desire,
Come and possess my happy breast, Not Fury-like in flames and fire,
Or frantic Folly's wildness drest; But come in Friendship’s angel-guise :
Yet dearer thou than friendship art, More tender spirit in thy eyes,
More sweet emotions at the heart.
O come with goodness in thy train,
With peace and pleasure void of storm,
Put on Amanda's winning form.
O D E.
ONIGHTINGALE, best poet of the grove,
That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to thee, Blest in the full possession of thy love:
O lend that strain, sweet Nightingale, to me!
'Tis mine, alas ! to mourn my wretched fate:
I love a maid who all my bosom charms, Yet lose my days without this lovely mate;
Inhuman Fortune keeps her from my arms.
You, happy birds! by Nature's simple laws
Lead your soft lives, sustain’d by Nature's fare; You dwell wherever roving fancy draws,
And love and song is all your pleasing care :
But we, vain slaves of int’rest and of pride,
Dare not be blest, lest envious tongues should blame: And hence in vain I languish for my bride;
O mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless flame.
THE wanton's charms, however bright,
A vicious love depraves the mind,