« ElőzőTovább »
HERE beauteous Belmont rears its modest brow, ,
To view na's filver waves below,
Each neighb'ring youth aspir'd to gain her hand,
Young POLYDORE, the pride of rural swains, Was wont to visit Belmont's blooming plains. Who has not heard how Polydore cou'd throw Th' unerring dart to wound the Aying doe? How leave the swiftest at the race behind, How mount the courser, and outstrip the wind? With melting sweetness, or with magic fire, Breathe the soft fute, or strike the louder lyre ? From thar fam'd lyre no vulgar music fprung, The Gracęs tun'd it and Apollo strung.
Apollo too was once a shepherd swain,
to wobe, Her joys how precious and her wants how few! The favage herds in mute attention stobd, And ravish'd Echo fill'd the vocal wood The facred Sisters, stooping from their sphere, Forgot their golden harps, intent to hear. Till Hcaven the scene survey'd with jealous eyes, And Jove in envy, call'd him to the skies.
Young Polydore was rich in large domains, In smiling pastures, and in iowery plains : With these he boalted each exterior charm, To win the prudent, and the cold to warm ;
To ad the tenderness he never felt,
Too foon he heard of Lindamira's fame, 'Twas each enamour’a Shepherd's fav'rite theme : Return'd the rising, and the setting fun, The Shepherd's fav’rite theme was never done. They prais'd her wit, her worth, her shape, her air! And even inferior beauties thought her fair.
Such sweet perfection all his wonder mor'd;
Cold as the snows of Rhodope descend,
Too well he knew to make his conquest sure, Win her soft heart, yet keep his own secure. So oft he told the well imagin'd tale, So oft he swore how should he not prevail ? Too unsuspecting pot to be deceiv’d, The well-imagined tale the nymph believ'd ; She lov'd the youth, she thought herself belov'd Nor blush'd to praise whom every maid approv'd.
Alas! that youth from Lindamira far
And now her eye's foft radiance feem'd to fail, And now the crimion of her cheek
grew pale ; The lilly there, in faded beauty, Thews Its fickly empire o'er the vanquish'd rose. Devouring forrow marks her for his prey, And now and certain mines his filent way. Yet, as apace her ebbing life declin’d, Increasing ftrength fustain'd her firmer mind. • O had my heart been, hard as his,” she cried, • An hapless vi&im thus I had not died : “ If there be gods, and gods there surely are, « Infulted virtue doubtless is their care. “Then hasten righteous Heaven! my tedious fate, “ Shorten my woes, and end my mortal date : “ Quick let your power transform this failing frame, " Let me be any thing but what I am ! « And fince the cruel woes I'm doom'd to feel, « Proceed, alas! from having lor'd too well; 6. Grant me some form where love can have no part, " Nor human weakness reach my guarded heart. " If pity has not left your bleft abodes,
Change me to flinty adamant, ye Gods ; “ To hardelt rock, or monumental stone, " Rather than let me know the
I've known, 66 So shall I thus no farther torments prove, " Nor taunting rivals say, she died for love.' " For sure if aught can aggravate our fate, " 'Tis scorn, or pity from the breast we hate." She said,--the Gods accord the fad request; For when were pious pray’rs in vain addresi ?