THE SHEPHERD'S DESPAIR. MY Lucy was charming and fair, My flute was melodious and soft, My cheeks which pale sorrow will fade, Ab, fair as the blossoms of spring, The dotard now wooes my dear maid, No more to my flocks will I sing, ELEGIAC STANZAS TO FIDELE, IN CYMBELINE. FEAR no more the scorching heat; Pains nor aches shall vex thy form, Yet shall fond Friendship, cherub mild, With balmy wing defend thy tomb; And hov'ring love, a weeping child, Rove sadly through the sacred gloom. Fond widows, of their loves bereav'd, Full many a prayer shall o'er thy clay, Shal! sorrow catch each mourning wind; Cast a long ling'ring look behind. Here shall no dismal exil'd fay, But gleams of sunshine gild the place, On the green turf of twinkling dew, The branch that marks the secret ground |