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appear bard beauty beneath bliſs bloom boaſt boſom bower breaſt breath bright charms crown'd Damon dear delight diſplay doubt face fair fame fancy fate fear fields figh fire flame flow flowers fond fortune gentle give glow gold grace green grove hand hear heart hill hope hour kind lov'd maid mind mournful Muſe muſt native nature ne'er never nymph o'er once pain paint peace plain pleaſe pleaſure praiſe pride race riſe roſe round rural ſcenes ſcorn ſee ſeem ſeen ſhade ſhall ſhe ſhine ſhould ſmile ſoft ſome ſong ſoul ſtream ſuch ſweet taſte tear tender thee theſe thine thoſe thou toils train tree tuneful Twas vain vale virtue voice wealth whoſe wild wind youth
Страница 281 - And work the simple vassals mickle woe; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, But their limbs...
Страница 158 - 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 flower, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, In time may have comfort for me.
Страница 284 - And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue ; And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's '.• wound; And marj'ram sweet, in shepherd's posie found; And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom Shall be, erewhile, in arid bundles bound, To lurk amidst the labours of her loom, And crown her kerchiefs clean, with mickle rare , perfume.
Страница 151 - 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.
Страница 154 - 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.
Страница 156 - Tis his with mock passion to glow, Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, " How her face is as bright as the snow, And her bosom, be sure, is as cold. How the nightingales labour the strain, With the notes of his charmer to vie; How they vary their accents in vain, Repine at her triumphs, and die.
Страница 153 - 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...
Страница 287 - She sees no kind domestic visage near, And soon a flood of tears begins to flow And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. But ah ! what pen his piteous plight may trace ? Or what device his loud laments explain? The form uncouth of his disguised face ? The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain ? The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain...
Страница 282 - Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, Emblem right meet of decency does yield : Her apron dy'd in grain, as blue, I trowe, As is the hare-bell that adorns the field : And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield Tway birchen sprays...