Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away!
Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay?
Through rocks and caves the name of Delia founds;
Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds.
Ye powers, what pleasing frenzy fooths my
Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?
She comes, my Delia comes !-Now cease my lay,
And ceafe, ye gales, to bear my fighs away!
Next Ægon fung, while Windfor groves admir'd; 55
Rehearse, ye Muses, what yourselves inspir'd.
Resound, ye hills, refound my mournful strain !
Of perjur'd Doris, dying I complain :
Here where the mountains, leffening as they rise,
Lofe the low vales, and steal into the skies;
While labouring oxen, fpent with toil and heat,
In their loofe traces from the field retreat :
While curling fmoaks from village-tops are feen,
And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay!
Beneath yon' poplar oft we past the day :
Oft' on the rind I carv'd her amorous vows,
While fhe with garlands hung the bending boughs:
The garlands fade, the vows are worn away;
So dies her love, and fo my hopes decay.
Ver. 48. Originally thus in the MS.
With him through Libya's burning plains I'll go,
On Alpine mountains tread th' eternal fnow;
Yet feel no heat but what our loves impart,
And dread no coldnefs but in Thyrfis' heart.
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strain!
Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain,
Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine,
And grateful clusters fwell with floods of wine;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove;
Juft gods! fhall all things yield returns but love!
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay!
The shepherds cry, "Thy flocks are left a prey.”
Ah! what avails it me, the flocks to keep,
Who loft my heart while I preferv'd my sheep.
Pan came, and ask`d, what magic caus'd my smart,
Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart?
What eyes but hers, alas, have power to move?
And is there magic but what dwells in love!
Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strains! 85 I'll fly from fhepherds, flocks, and flowery plains. From fhepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove, Forfake mankind, and all the world-but love! I know thee, Love! on foreign mountains bred, Wolves gave thee fuck, and savage tigers fed. Thou wert from Ætna's burning entrails torn, Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born! Resound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay! Farewell, ye woods, adieu the light of day! One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains, No more, ye hills, no more refound my ftrains!
Thus fung the fhepherds till th' approach of night, The skies yet blushing with departing light, When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade, And the low fun had lengthen'd every shade.
THYRSIS, the mufic of that murmuring spring
Is not fo mournful as the strains you fing.
Nor rivers winding through the vales below,
So fweetly warble, or fo fmoothly flow.
Now fleeping, flocks on their foft fleeces lie,
The moon, ferene in glory, mounts the sky,
While filent birds forget their tuneful lays,
O fing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's praife!
Behold the groves that fhine with filver froft,
Their beauty wither'd, and their verdure loft.
Here fhall I try the fweet Alexis' ftrain,
That call'd the liftening Dryads to the plain?
Thames heard the numbers, as he flow'd along,
And bade his willows learn the moving fong.
So may kind rains their vital moisture yield,
And fwell the future harvest of the field.
Begin; this charge the dying Daphne gave,
And faid, "Ye shepherds, fing around my grave!”
Sing, while befide the shaded tomb I mourn,
And with fresh bays her rural shrine adorn.
Ye gentle Mufes, leave your crystal spring,
Let Nymphs and Sylvans cyprefs garlands bring;
Ye weeping Loves, the stream with myrtles hide,
And break your bows as when Adonis dy'd;
And with your golden darts, now useless grown,
Inscribe a verse on this relenting stone :
"Let nature change, let heaven and earth deplore,
"Fair Daphne's dead, and Love is now no more!"
'Tis done, and nature's various charms decay :
See gloomy clouds obfcure the chearful day!
Now hung with pearls the dropping trees appear,
Their faded honours featter'd on her bier.
See where, on earth, the flowery glories lie,.
With her they flourish'd, and with her they die.
Ah, what ayail the beauties nature wore?
Fair Daphne's dead, and Beauty is, no more!
For her the flocks refufe their verdant food,
The thirsty heifers fhun, the gliding flood,
The filver swans her hapless fate bemoan,
In notes more fad than when they fing their own; 40 In hollow caves fweet Echo filent lies,
Silent, or only to her name replies;
Ver. 29. Originally thus in the MS.
'Tis done, and nature's chang'd fince you are gone s Behold the clouds have " put their mourning on."
Her name with pleasure once she taught the shore,
Now Daphne's dead, and Pleasure is no more!
No grateful dews defcend from evening skies,
Nor morning odours from the flowers arise;
No rich perfumes refresh the fruitful field,
Nor fragrant herbs their native incense yield.
The balmy Zephyrs, filent fince her death,
Lament the ceafing of a sweeter breath;
Th' industrious bees neglect their golden store!
Fair Daphne's dead, and Sweetness is no more!
No more the mounting larks, while Daphne fings, Shall, listening in mid air, fufpend their wings; No more the birds fhall imitate her lays,
Or, hush'd with wonder, hearken from the sprays :
No more the streams their murmurs shall forbear,
A fweeter mufic than their own to hear;
But tell the reeds, and tell the vocal fhore,
Fair Daphne's dead, and Mufic is no more!
Her fate is whisper'd by the gentle breeze,
And told in fighs to all the trembling trees;
The trembling trees, in every plain and wood,
Her fate remurmur to the filver flood:
The filver flood, fo lately calm, appears
Swell'd with new paffion, and o'erflows with tears;
The winds and trees and floods her death deplore,
Daphne, our grief! our glory now no more!
But fee! where Daphne wondering mounts on high Above the clouds, above the starry sky! Eternal beauties grace the fhining scene,
Fields ever fresh, and groves for ever green!
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