Let his crook be with hyacinths bound, Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd, Or fure I must envy the fong. IV. DISAPPOINTMENT. Ye fhepherds, give ear to my lay, She was fair-and my paffion begun ; Perhaps I was void of all thought; It banishes wifdom the while; And the lip of the nymph we admire She She is faithlefs, and I am undone ; What it cannot inftruct you to cure. Amid nymphs of an higher degree: It is not for me to explain How fair and how fickle they be. Alas! from the day that we met, The glance that undid my repose. The flower, and the fhrub, and the tree, The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rofe, The found of a murmuring ftream, O ye woods, fpread your branches apace; I would hide with the beafts of the chace; I would vanish from every eye. Yet Yet my reed fhall refound through the grove SONG LIX. COLIN S COMPLAINT. BY NICHOLAS ROWE ESQ*. To the tune of, Grim King of the ghofts. D ESPAIRING befide a clear stream, The wind that blew over the plain, To his fighs with a figh did reply; Alas, filly fwain that I was! Thus fadly complaining he cried, "Twere better by far I had died. I liften'd, and cried, when fhe fung, Was nightingale ever fo fweet? The author, in this beautiful and pathetic ballad, alludes to his own fituation with the countess dowager of Warwick, and to his fuccessful rival mr. Addifon. How foolish was I to believe She could doat on so lowly a clown; Or that her fond heart would not grieve To forfake the fine folk of the town? To think that a beauty fo gay, Or So kind and fo conftant would prove; go clad like our maidens in gray, Or live in a cottage on love? What though I have kill to complain, Though the Mufes my temples have crown'd; Ah Colin! thy hopes are in vain, Thy falfe one inclines to a swain, And you, my companions fo dear, Forbear to accufe the falfe maid. Though through the wide world I should range, If while my hard fate I fuftain, In her breast any pity is found, VOL. I. The The laft humble boon that I crave, Then to her new love let her go, And frolic it all the long day: SONG LX. BY MR. OTWA Y. NOME all ye youths whose hearts e'er bled COM By cruel beautys pride, Bring each a garland on his head, Let none his forrows hide; But hand in hand around me move, In the tragedy of The Orphan. The |