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While labouring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
boughs : The garlands fade, the vows are worn away ; So dies her love, and so my hopes decay.
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain, Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine, And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine ; Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove: Just gods! shall all things yield returns but love?
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! The shepherds cry,“ Thy flocks are left a prey”— Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep, Who lost my heart while I preservd 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!
Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains ! I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flowery plains; From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove, Forsake mankind, and all the world—but love!
I know thee, Love! on foreign mountains bred, Wolves gave thee suck, and savage tigers fed. Thou wert from Ætna's burning entrails torn, Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born!
Resound, ye hills, resound 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 resound my strains !
Thus sung the shepherds till th’approach of night, The skies yet blushing with departing light, When fallen dews with spangles deck'd the glade, And the low sun had lengthen'd every shade.
WINTER; OR, DAPHNE.
TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. TEMPEST.1
1 A lady of an ancient family in Yorkshire, and a friend of Pope's early patron, Walsh.
While silent birds forget their tuneful lays,
Behold the groves that shine with silver frost,
may kind rains their vital moisture yield, And swell the future harvest of the field. Begin: this charge the dying Daphne gave, And said, "Ye shepherds, sing around my grave!” Sing, while beside the shaded tomb I
mourn, And with fresh bays her rural shrine adorn.
Ye gentle Muses, leave your crystal spring,
'Tis done; and nature's various charms decay, See gloomy clouds obscure the cheerful day!
Now hung with pearls the dropping trees appear,
For her the flocks refuse their verdant food,
No grateful dews descend 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, silent since her death, Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath ; Th’ industrious bees neglect their golden store: Fair Daphne's dead, and sweetness is no more!
No more the mountain larks, while Daphne sings, Shall, listening in mid air, suspend their wings ; No more the birds shall imitate her lays, Or, hush'd with wonder, hearken from the sprays; No more the streams their murmurs shall forbear, A sweeter music than their own to hear; But tell the reeds, and tell the vocal shore, Fair Daphne’s dead, and music is no more!
Her fate is whisper'd by the gentle breeze,
plore, Daphne, our grief, our glory now no more! But see! where Daphne wondering mounts on
How all things listen, while thy Muse complains !
give, Thy name, thy honour, and thy praise shall live!