When will he awaken? a loud voice hath been crying, Night after night, and the cry has been in vain ; Time doth consume fame, honor, wit, Winds, woods, and waves found echoes for and strength; Time kills the greenest herbs and sweetest flowers; Time wears out Youth and Beauty's looks at length; Time doth convey to ground both foe and friend, replying, But the tones of the beloved one were never heard again. When will he awaken? Asked the midnight's silver queen. And each thing else but Love, which Never mortal eye has look'd upon his Long has been the cry of faithful love's Lovely is the green earth,-she knows the imploring; Long has hope been watching with soft eyes fix'd above; hour is holy; Starry are the heavens, lit with eternal joy; When will the fates, the life of life restor- Light like their own is dawning sweet and Not a wind that wanders o'er Mount Latmos When Phoebe went with me wherever I Music that is murmur'd from nature's Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my But now she is gone, and has left me be- My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail at my fair one and hind, What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! When things were as fine as could possibly be, I thought 'twas the spring; but, alas! it was she. With such a companion, to tend a few sheep, To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep, me: And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, "Come hither, poor fellow;" and patted his 'head. But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look Cry, Sirrah! and give him a blow with my crook. And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray I was so good-humor'd, so cheerful and gay, Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's grown, So strangely uneasy as never was known. My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd, And my heart-I am sure it weighs more than a pound. The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe were there, away? When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen! How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, The corn-fields and hedges, and everything made! But now she has left me, though all are still there, They none of them now so delightful appear: 'Twas naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes, 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to Made so many beautiful prospects arise. hear, But now she is absent, I walk by its side, And still as it murmurs do nothing but chide. Must you be so cheerful while I go in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain. Sweet music went with us both all the wood through, The lark, linnet, throstle and nightingale too; Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp! went the grasshopper under our feet. When my lambkins around me would But now she is absent, though still they oftentimes play, And when Phoebe and I were as joyful as they, sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone: How pleasant their sporting, how happy Her voice in the concert, as now I have When spring, love, and beauty were all in Gave everything else its agreeable sound. their prime? But now in their frolics when by me they Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? pass, I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass: Be still, then I cry; for it makes me quite mad, To see you so merry while I am so sad. And where is the violet's beautiful blue? Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile? That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you So shall the fairest face appear, When youth and years are flown: dress'd And made yourselves fine for-a place in Such is the robe that kings must wear, her breast; You put on your colors to pleasure her eye, To be pluck'd by her hand, on her bosom to die. How slowly Time creeps, till my Phoebe While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes Methinks if I knew whereabouts he would I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down the lead. Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, When death has reft their crown. Her bloom was like the springing flower, The rose was budded in her cheek, But love had, like the canker-worm, The rose grew pale, and left her cheek- "Awake," she cried, "thy true love calls, And rest so much longer for't when she is "This is the dark and dreary hour, here. |