English

I know to whom I speak. On Isis' banks,
And melancholy Cherwell, near the ranks
Of shading willows, often have we lain
And heard the Muses and Apollo's strain
In heavenly raptures, as the pow'rs on high
Had there been lecturers of poesy,
And nature's searcher, deep philosophy;
Yet neither these, nor any other art
Can yield a means to cure my wounded heart.
Stay then from losing longer time on me,
And in these deep caves of obscurity
Spend some few hours to see what is not known
Above; but on the wings of rumour blown.

Honours and places, riches, pleasures be
Beyond my star, and not ordain'd for me;
Or sure the way is lost, and those we hold
For true, are counterfeits to those of old.
How sprout they else so soon, like osier tops,
Which one spring breeds and which next autumn lops?
Why are they else so fading: so possess'd
With guilt and fear, they dare not stand the test?
Had virtue and true merit been the basis,
Whereon were rais'd their honours and high places,
They had been stronger seated, and had stood

A little door, at last, he in the side
Of the long-stretched entry had descried,
And coming to it with the lamp, he spies
These lines upon a table writ: —

Love! when I met her first whose slave I am,
To make her mine, why had I not thy flame?
Or else thy blindness not to see that day?
Or if I needs must look on her rare parts,
Love! why to wound her had I not thy darts,
Since I had not thy wings to fly away?

Winter was gone; and by the lovely spring
Each pleasant grove a merry quire became,

Thus came he down into a narrow vault,
Whose rocky sides (free from the smallest fault,
Enforc'd by age or weather) and the roof
Stood firmly strong and almost thunder-proof.
'Twas long; and at the far-off further end
A little lamp he spies, as he had kenn'd
One of the fixed stars; the light was small,
And distance made it almost nought at all.
Tow'rds it he came, and, from the swain which fled,
These verses fall'n took up, went near and read:

Listen! ye gentle winds, to my sad moan;

His sorrow this way yet had further gone,
For now his soul, all in confusion,
Discharg'd her passions on all things she met,
And, rather than on none, on counterfeit.
For in her suff'rings she will sooner frame
Subjects fantastical, forms without name,
Deceive itself against her own conceit,
Then want to work on somewhat thought of weight.
Hence comes it, those affections which are tied
To an enforced bed, a worthless bride,
(Wanting a lawful hold) our loving part
To subjects of less worth doth soon convert

Seated at last near Tavy's silver stream,
Sleep seiz'd our shepherd; and in sleep a dream
Show'd him Marina all bedew'd with tears:
Pale as the lily of the field appears,
When the unkiss'd morn from the mountains' tops
Sees the sweet flow'rs distil their silver drops.
She seem'd to take him by the hand and say:
O Celadyne, this, this is not the way
To recompense the wrong which thou hast done
And I have pardon'd, since it was begun
To exercise my virtue; I am thine
More than I wish'd, or thou canst now divine.

Thrice had the pale-fac'd Cynthia fill'd her horris,
And through the circling zodiac, which adorns
Heaven's goodly frame, the horses of the sun
A fourth part of their race had fiercely run,
Since fair Marina left her gentle flock;
Whose too untimely loss the watchful cock
No oft'ner gave a summons to the day,
Then some kind shepherd on the fertile ley
Took a sad seat, and, with a drowned eye,
Bemoan'd in heart far more than elegy.

Here sits a shepherd whose mellifluous tongue
On shaded banks of rivers whilom sung

ELEGY IV.

O H ! yet, ye dear, deluding visions stay!
Fond hopes, of Innocence and Fancy born!
For you I'll cast these waking thoughts away,
For one wild dream of life's romantic morn

Ah! no: the sunshine o'er each object spread
By flattering Hope, the flowers that blew so fair,
Like the gay gardens of Armida fled,
And vanish'd from the powerful rod of Care.

ELEGY III.

Bright o'er the green hills rose the morning ray,
The woodlark's song resounded on the plain;
Fair Nature felt the warm embrace of day,
And smil'd through all her animated reign.

When young Delight, of Hope and Fancy born,
His head on tufted wild thyme half-reclin'd,
Caught the gay colours of the orient morn,
And thence of life this picture vain design'd:

ELEGY II.

And were they vain, those soothing lays ye sung?
Children of Fancy! yes, your song was vain;
On each soft air though rapt Attention hung,
And Silence listen'd on the sleeping plain.

The strains yet vibrate on my ravish'd ear,
And still to smile the mimic beauties seem,
Though now the visionary scenes appear
Like the faint traces of a vanish'd dream.