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The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far distant shrine,
If he bear but a relic away,

Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely removed from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relic I bear,
And my solace wherever I go.


My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmurs invite one to sleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all border'd with moss, Where the hare-bells and violets grow.

Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;
Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a sweet-brier entwines it around.
Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold!
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,

But it glitters with fishes of gold.

One would think she might like to retire
To the bower I have labour'd to rear;
Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
But I hasted and planted it there.
Oh how sudden the jessamine strove
With the lilac to render it gay;
Already it calls for my love

To prune the wild branches away.

From the plains, from the woodlands and
What strains of wild melody flow!
How the nightingales warble their loves
From thickets of roses that blow!
And when her bright form shall appear,
Each bird shall harmoniously join

In a concert so soft and so clear,

As-she may not be fond to resign.


I have found out a gift for my fair;

I have found out the wood-pigeon's breed:
But let me that plunder forbear,

She will say 'twas a barbarous deed.
For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young:
And I loved her the more, when I heard

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

I have heard her with sweetness unfold

How that pity was due to-a dove; That it ever attended the bold,

And she call'd it the sister of Love.
But her words such a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,

Let her speak, and whatever she say,
Methinks I should love her the more.

Can a bosom so gentle remain

Unmoved when her Corydon sighs? Will a nymph that is fond of the plain, These plains and this valley despise ? Dear regions of silence and shade!

Soft scenes of contentment and ease! Where I could have pleasingly stray'd, If aught in her absence could please.

But where does my Phyllida stray?
And where are her grots and her bowers?

Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
And the shepherds as gentle as ours?

The groves may perhaps be as fair,

And the face of the valleys as fine; The swains may in manners compare,

But their love is not equal to mine.


WHY will you my passion reprove?
Why term it a folly to grieve,

Ere I show you the charms of my love?
She is fairer than you can believe.
With her mien she enamours the brave;
With her wit she engages the free;
With her modesty pleases the grave;
She is every way pleasing to me.

O you that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays!
I could lay down my life for the swain
That will sing but a song in her praise.
When he sings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping and listen the while;

Nay, on him let not Phyllida frown;
-But I cannot allow her to smile.

For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,.
Might she ruin the peace of my mind!
In ringlets he dresses his hair,

And his crook is bestudded around;
And his pipe-oh, my Phyllis! beware

Of a magic there is in the sound.

"Tis his with mock passion to glow,
'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold,
"How her face is as bright as the snow,
And her bosom, be sure, is as cold;
How the nightingales labour the strain,
With the notes of his charmer to vie;
How they vary their accents in vain,
Repine at her triumphs, and die."

To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
"O Phyllis," he whispers, "more fair,
More sweet than the jessamine's flower!
What are pinks in the morn to compare?
What is eglantine after a shower?

"Then the lily no longer is white;

Then the rose is deprived of its bloom;

Then the violets die with despite,

And the woodbines give up their perfume."

Thus glide the soft numbers along,

And he fancies no shepherd his peer:

Yet I never could envy the song,

Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.

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