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No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown,
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone-
We frolic while 'tis May.




O'ER moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, and bare, As wilder'd and wearied I roam,

A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair,

And leads me o'er lawns to her home.

Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crown'd, Green rushes were strew'd on her floor,

Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round, And deck'd the sod seats at her door.

We sat ourselves down to a cooling repast,

Fresh fruits!-and she cull'd me the best;

Whilst, thrown from my guard by some glances she cast, Love slily stole into my breast.

I told my soft wishes-she sweetly replied, (Ye virgins, her voice was divine!)

"I've rich ones rejected, and great ones denied; Yet take me, fond shepherd-I'm thine."

Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek,
So simple, yet sweet were her charms,
I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,
And lock'd the loved maid in my arms.

Now jocund together we tend a few sheep;
And if on the banks by the stream,
Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep,
Her image still softens my dream.

Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills,
Delighted with pastoral views,

Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils,
And mark out new themes for my muse.

To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,
The damsel's of humble descent;

The cottager Peace is well known for her sire,

And shepherds have named her, Content.




OFT I've implored the gods in vain,
And pray'd till I've been weary;
For once I'll try my wish to gain
Of Oberon the fairy.

Sweet airy being, wanton sprite,
That lurk'st in woods unseen,
And oft by Cynthia's silver light
Tripp'st gaily o'er the green;

If e'er thy pitying heart was moved,
As ancient stories tell,

And for the Athenian maid who loved,
Thou sought'st a wondrous spell;

Oh! deign once more to exert thy power; Haply some herb or tree,

Sovereign as juice of western flower,

Conceals a balm for me.

I ask no kind return of love,

No tempting charm to please:

Far from the heart those gifts remove,
That sighs for peace and ease.

Nor peace nor ease the heart can know,
Which, like the needle true,

Turns at the touch of joy or woe,
But, turning, trembles too.

Far as distress the soul can wound, "Tis pain in each degree:

"Tis bliss but to a certain bound;

Beyond, is agony.

Take then this treacherous sense of mine,
Which dooms me still to smart;
Which pleasure can to pain refine,
To pains new pangs impart.

Oh, haste to shed the sacred balm!
My shatter'd nerves new-string;
And for my guest, serenely calm,
The nymph Indifference bring.

At her approach, see Hope, see Fear,
See Expectation fly;

And Disappointment in the rear,

That blasts the promised joy.

The tear which Pity taught to flow,

The eye shall then disown;

The heart that melts for others' woe

Shall then scarce feel its own.

The wounds which now each moment bleed,

Each moment then shall close,

And tranquil days shall still succeed

To nights of calm repose.

O fairy elf! but grant me this,

This one kind comfort send;

And so may never-fading bliss
Thy flowery paths attend.

So may the glow-worm's glimmering light
Thy tiny footsteps lead

To some new region of delight,
Unknown to mortal tread.

And be thy acorn goblet fill'd

With heaven's ambrosial dew;
From sweetest, freshest flowers distill'd,
That shed fresh sweets for you.

And what of life remains for me
I'll pass in sober ease;

Half pleased, contented will I be,
Content but half to please.

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