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And, cruel gods,' and cruel stars,' she cried : Nor did the shepherds, through the woodlands
wide, On that sad day, or to the pensive brook, Or silent river, drive their thirsty fiocks : Nor did the wild goat browse the shrubby rocks: And Philomel her custom'd oak forsook: And roses wan were waved by zephyrs weak, As Nature's self was sick: And every lily droop'd its silver head. Sad sympathy! yet sure his rightful meed Who charm'd all nature: well might Nature mourn Through all her choicest sweets Musæus dead.
Here endwe, Goddess ! this your shepherd sang, All as his hands an ivy chaplet wove. Oh! make it worthy of the sacred Bard; And make it equal to the shepherd's love. Thou too accept the strain with meet regard : For sure, bless'd Shade, thou hear'st my doleful
song ; Whether with angel troops, the stars among, From golden harp thou call'st seraphic lays; Or, for fair Virtue's cause, now doubly dear, Thou still art hovering o'er our tuneless sphere; And movest some hidden spring her weal to raise.
Thus the fond swain his Doric oate essay'd, Manhood's prime honours rising on his cheek: Trembling he strove to court the tuneful maid With strippling arts, and dalliance all too weak,
Virg. Ecl. 10.
Unseen, unheard, beneath a hawthorn shade.
[swain. They ceased, and with them ceased the shepherd
EVENING ADDRESS TO A NIGHTIN
Thanks for thy sorrow-soothing strain :-
Else why so feelingly complain, And with thy piteous notes thus sadden all the
Say, dost thou mourn thy ravish'd mate,
That oft enamour'd on thy strains has hung? Or has the cruel hand of Fate Bereft thee of thy darling young ?
Alas, for both I weepIn all the pride of youthful charms, A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms, A lovely babe that should have lived to bless,
And fill my doting eyes with frequent tears, At once the source of rapture and distress,
The flattering prop of my declining years !
In vain from death to rescue I essay'd,
By every art that Science could devise; Alas! it languish'd for a mother's aid,
And wing'd its flight to seek her in the skies.Then O! our comforts be the same,
At evening's peaceful hour,
And breathe our sorrows in this lonely bower.
But why, alas! to thee complain!
The genial warmth of joy-renewing Spring
Nought can dry up the fountain of my tears; Deploring still the comfort of my soul,
I count my sorrows by increasing years.
Tell me, thou siren Hope, deceiver, say,
Where is the promised period of my woes? Full three long lingering years have roll’d away, And yet I weep, a stranger to repose :
O what delusion did thy tongue employ! "That Emma's fatal pledge of love,
Her last bequest—with all a mother's care, The bitterness of sorrow should remove, Soften the horrors of despair,
And cheer a heart long lost to joy?'
How oft, when fondling in mine arms,
Gazing enraptured on its angel face,
My soul the maze of Fate would vainly trace, And burn with all a father's fond alarms! And O! what flattering scenes had Fancy feign'd! How did I rave of blessings yet in store! Till every aching sense was sweetly pain’d, And my full heart could bear, nor tongue could
Just Heaven !' I cried with recent hopes
elate, Yet I will live-will live, though Emma's dead! So long bow'd down beneath the storms of Fate,
Yet will I raise my woe-dejected head!
Will want a father's care.
And for her sake the ills of life I'll bear;
Complaint, the only bliss my soul can know; From me my child shall learn the mournful strain, And prattle tales of woe.
And O! in that auspicious hour,
When Fate resigns her persecuting power, With duteous zeal her hand sball close,
No more to weep, my sorrow-streaming eyes, When Death gives Misery repose,
And opes a glorious passage to the skies.' Vain thought! it must not be.-She too is dead
The flattering scene is o'er,-
And vengeance can no more
Crush'd by misfortune-blasted by disease
And none-pone left to bear a friendly part! To meditate my welfare, health, or ease,
Or soothe the anguish of an aching heart! Now all one gloomy scene, till welcome Death,
With lenient hand, (0 falsely deem'd severe !) Shall kindly stop my grief-exhausted breath,
And dry up every tear!
But ah! from my affections far removed !
As if, unconscious of poetic fire,
Yet—while this weary life shall last, [strain,
While yet my tongue can form the' impassion'd
For O! how grateful to a wounded heart
And raise esteem upon the base of woe!
Shall deign my lovelorn tale to hear, Shall catch the soft contagion of my song,
And pay my pensive Muse the tribute of a tear!
* Lord Lyttelton, who had highly applauded Shaw's Monody.