The Invitation
DAMON.
Haste! Sylvia! haste, my charming Maid!
Let's leave these fashionable toys;
Let's seek the shelter of some shade,
And revel in ne'er fading joys.
See spring in liv'ry gay appears,
And winter's chilly blasts are fled;
Each grove its leafy honours rears,
And meads their lovely verdure spread!
SYLVIA.
Yes Damon, glad I'll quit the town,
Its gaities now languid seem;
Then sweets to luxury unknown
We'll taste, and sip th' untainted stream.
In Summer's sultry noon-tide heat,
I'll lead thee to the shady grove;
There hush thy cares, or pleas'd repeat
Those vows that won my soul to love.
DAMON.
When o'er the mountain peeps the dawn,
And round her ruddy beauties play,
I'll wake my Love to view the lawn,
Or hear the warblers hall the day.
But, without thee, the rising morn
In vain awakes the cooling breeze,
In vain does nature's face adorn;
Without my Sylvia nought can please.
SYLVIA.
At night, when universal gloom
Hides the bright prospect from our view,
When the gay groves give up their bloom,
And verdant meads their lovely hue;
Tho' fleeting spectres round me move,
When in thy circling arms I'm prest,
I'll hush my rising fears with love,
And sink in slumber on thy breast.
DAMON.
The new-blown rose, whilst on its leaves
Yet the bright scented dew-drops found,
Pleas'd on thy bosom, whilst it heaves,
Shall shake its heav'nly fragrance round.
Then mingled sweets the sense shall raise,
Then mingled beauties catch the eye;
What pleasure on such charms to gaze!
What rapture mid such sweets to lie!
SYLVIA.
How sweet thy words!--but, Damon cease,
Nor strive to fix me ever here;
Too well you know these accents please,
That oft have fill'd my ravish'd ear.
Come, lead me to these promis'd joys,
That dwelt so lately on thy tongue;
Direct me by thy well known voice,
And calm my transports with thy song!
poem by Thomas Godfrey
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Related quotes
His Sweetheart
Sylvia's lattices were dark
Roses made them narrow.
In the dawn there came a Spark,
Armèd with an arrow:
Blithe he burst by dewy spray,
Winged by bud and blossom,
All undaunted urged his way
Straight to Sylvia's bosom.
'Sylvia! Sylvia! Sylvia!' he
Like a bee kept humming,
'Wake, my sweeting; waken thee,
For thy Soldier's coming!'
Sylvia sleeping in the dawn,
Dreams that Cupid's trill is
Roses singing on the lawn,
Courting crested lilies.
Sylvia smiles and Sylvia sleeps,
Sylvia weeps and slumbers;
Cupid to her pink ear creeps,
Pipes his pretty numbers.
Sylvia dreams that bugles play,
Hears a martial drumming;
Sylvia springs to meet the day
With her Soldier coming.
Happy Sylvia, on thee wait
All the gracious graces!
Venus mild her cestus plait
Round thy lawns and laces!
Flora fling a flower most fair,
Hope a rainbow lend thee!
All the nymphs to Cupid dear
On this day befriend thee!
'Sylvia! Sylvia! Sylvia!' hear
How he keeps a-humming,
Laughing in her jewelled ear,
'Sweet, thy Soldier's coming!'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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The Tears Of Amynta, For The Death Of Damon. A Song
1.
On a bank, beside a willow,
Heaven her covering, earth her pillow,
Sad Amynta sigh'd alone:
From the cheerless dawn of morning
Till the dews of night returning,
Singing thus she made her moan:
Hope is banish'd,
Joys are vanish'd,
Damon, my beloved, is gone!
2.
Time, I dare thee to discover
Such a youth and such a lover;
Oh, so true, so kind was he!
Damon was the pride of nature,
Charming in his every feature;
Damon lived alone for me;
Melting kisses,
Murmuring blisses:
Who so lived and loved as we?
3.
Never shall we curse the morning.
Never bless the night returning,
Sweet embraces to restore:
Never shall we both lie dying,
Nature failing, Love supplying
All the joys he drain'd before:
Death come end me,
To befriend me:
Love and Damon are no more
poem by John Dryden
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Spring - The First Pastoral ; or Damon
First in these fields I try the sylvan strains,
Nor blush to sport on Windsor's blissful plains:
Fair Thames, flow gently from thy sacred spring,
While on thy banks Sicilian Muses sing;
Let vernal airs tho' trembling osiers play,
And Albion's cliffs resound the rural lay.
You, that too wise for pride, too good for pow'r,
Enjoy the glory to be great no more,
And carrying with you all the world can boast,
To all the world illustriously are lost!
O let my Muse her slender reed inspire,
Till in your native shades you tune the lyre:
So when the Nightingale to rest removes,
The Thrush may chant to the forsaken groves,
But, charm'd to silence, listens while she sings,
And all th' aerial audience clap their wings.
Soon as the flocks shook off the nightly dews,
Two Swains, whom Love kept wakeful, and the Muse
Pour'd o'er the whitening vale their fleecy care,
Fresh as the morn, and as the season fair:
The dawn now blushing on the mountain's side,
Thus Daphnis spoke, and Strephon thus reply'd.
Daphnis.
Hear how the birds, on ev'ry bloomy spray,
With joyous musick wake the dawning day!
Why sit we mute when early linnets sing,
When warbling Philomel salutes the spring?
Why sit we sad when Phosphor shines so clear,
And lavish nature paints the purple Year?
Strephon.
Sing, then, and Damon shall attend the strain,
While yon' slow oxen turn the furrow'd Plain.
Here the bright crocus and blue vi'let glow;
Here western winds on breathing roses blow.
I'll stake yon' lamb, that near the fountain plays,
And from the brink his dancing shade surveys.
Daphnis.
And I this bowl, where wanton Ivy twines,
And swelling clusters bend the curling vines:
Four figures rising from the work appear,
The various seasons of the rolling year;
And what is that, which binds the radiant sky,
Where twelve fair Signs in beauteous order lie?
Damon.
Then sing by turns, by turns the Muses sing,
Now hawthorns blossom, now the daisies spring,
Now leaves the trees, and flow'rs adorn the ground,
Begin, the vales shall ev'ry note rebound.
Inspire me, Phoebus, in my Delia's praise
With Waller's strains, or Granville's moving lays!
A milk-white bull shall at your altars stand,
That threats a fight, and spurns the rising sand.
Daphnis.
O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize,
And make my tongue victorious as her eyes;
No lambs or sheep for victims I'll impart,
Thy victim, Love, shall be the shepherd's heart.
Strephon.
Me gentle Delia beckons from the plain,
Then hid in shades, eludes her eager swain;
But feigns a laugh, to see me search around,
And by that laugh the willing fair is found.
Daphnis.
The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green,
She runs, but hopes she does not run unseen;
While a kind glance at her pursuer flies,
How much at variance are her feet and eyes!
Strephon.
O'er golden sands let rich Pactolus flow,
And trees weep amber on the banks of Po;
Blest Thames's shores the brightest beauties yield,
Feed here my lambs, I'll seek no distant field.
Daphnis.
Celestial Venus haunts Idalia's groves;
Diana Cynthus, Ceres Hybla loves;
If Windsor-shades delight the matchless maid,
Cynthus and Hybla yield to Windsor-shade.
Strephon.
All nature mourns, the Skies relent in show'rs,
Hush'd are the birds, and clos'd the drooping flow'rs;
If Delia smile, the flow'rs begin to spring,
The skies to brighten, and the birds to sing.
Daphnis.
All nature laughs, the groves are fresh and fair,
The Sun's mild lustre warms the vital air;
If Sylvia smiles, new glories gild the shore,
And vanquish'd nature seems to charm no more.
Strephon.
In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love,
At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove,
But Delia always; absent from her sight,
Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight.
Daphnis.
Sylvia's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May,
More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day;
Ev'n spring displeases, when she shines not here;
But blest with her, 'tis spring throughout the year.
Strephon.
Say, Daphnis, say, in what glad soil appears,
A wond'rous Tree that sacred Monarchs bears:
Tell me but this, and I'll disclaim the prize,
And give the conquest to thy Sylvia's eyes.
Daphnis.
Nay tell me first, in what more happy fields
The Thistle springs, to which the Lily yields:
And then a nobler prize I will resign;
For Sylvia, charming Sylvia, shall be thine.
Damon.
Cease to contend, for, Daphnis, I decree,
The bowl to Strephon, and the lamb to thee:
Blest Swains, whose Nymphs in ev'ry grace excel;
Blest Nymphs, whose Swains those graces sing so well!
Now rise, and haste to yonder woodbine bow'rs,
A soft retreat from sudden vernal show'rs,
The turf with rural dainties shall be crown'd,
While op'ning blooms diffuse their sweets around.
For see! the gath'ring flocks to shelter tend,
And from the Pleiads fruitful show'rs descend.
poem by Alexander Pope
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Sylvia
Whoa, oh, oh, yeah
Mmm, hmm sylvia
You know youre getting to me now
Mmm, mmm, mmm, sylvia
You gently touched my heart somehow
Yesterday you made me happy as a child at play
Just like the summer sun that warms my heart
And move on, now you are gone
Whoa, oh, oh, sylvia
Youre everything that I adore
That sweet song, that caught a spark in me more
Tenderly thats how you whisper that you loved me
As if a raindrop kissed my ear and disappeared, now you are gone
Oh, oh, oh, yeah
You know I love my little sylvia
Whoa, oh, oh, yeah
And yesterday I feel in love with you all the way
Tenderly you lit a spark in my heart, now you are gone
Mmm, hmm, sylvia
I gently miss sylvia
Im crazy bout ya, sylvia
You know I love my little sylvia
song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sylvia
(words & music by g. stephens - l. reed)
These long lonely evenings
Here I am on the phone
Wondering if she will call
She said she would write me
cause she knows Im alone
But I hear nothing at all
Im waiting for a word of love from sylvia.
You think shed never heard of love my sylvia,
But when Im with her lord, I forgive her
cause shes more than the whole world to me
Theres nothing like a word of love from sylvia
The only one Im thinking of is sylvia
Feeling so sad now, Ill be so glad now
If I just had my sylvia with me
That old weepin willow
Seems to whisper her name
Why did she go away
The tears on my pillow
Theyre not hard to explain
Theres nothing else I can say
Im waiting for a word of love from sylvia.
You think shed never heard of love my sylvia,
But when Im with her lord, I forgive her
cause shes more than the whole world to me
Theres nothing in the world like sylvia
The only one Im thinking of is sylvia
Feeling so sad now, Ill be so glad now
If I just had my sylvia with me
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heavenly Arms
Heavenly arms reach out to hold me
Heavenly arms entice you to dance
In a world of ill will, the dancers are still
Heavenly arms reach out to me
Heavenly arms soft as a love song
Heavenly arms bring a kiss to your ear
In a world that seems mad, all the dancers seem sad
Heavenly arms reach out to me
Sylvia
Sylvia
Sylvia
Sylvia
Heavenly arms come to my rescue
Only a woman can love a man
In a world full of hate, love should never wait
Heavenly arms reach out to me
Heavenly arms strong as a sunset
Heavenly arms pure as the rain
Lovers stand warned of the worlds impending storm
Heavenly arms reach out to me
Sylvia
Sylvia
Sylvia
Sylvia
Ohhh-wohhh, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
Ooohhh-ooohhh-ooohhh-ooohhh-ooohhh, oh-woh-woh
Ooohhh-ooohhh-ooohhh-ooohhh, ohh-woh-woh
(heavenly arms reach out to hold me)
(sylvia, you mean so much to me)
(heavenly arms reach out to hold me)
(sylvia, you mean so much to me)
(heavenly arms reach out to hold me)
(sylvia, you mean so much to me)
(heavenly arms reach out to hold me)
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Flower of Love
'Tis said the rose is Love's own flower,
Its blush so bright, its thorns so many;
And winter on its bloom has power,
But has not on its sweetness any.
For though young Love's ethereal rose
Will droop on Age's wintry bosom,
Yet still its faded leaves disclose
The fragrance of their earliest blossom.
But ah! the fragrance lingering there
Is like the sweets that mournful duty
Bestows with sadly-soothing care,
To deck the grave of bloom and beauty.
For when its leaves are shrunk and dry,
Its blush extinct, to kindle never,
That fragrance is but Memory's sigh,
That breathes of pleasures past for ever.
Why did not Love the amaranth choose,
That bears no thorns, and cannot perish ?
Alas! no sweets its flowers diffuse,
And only sweets Love's life can cherish.
But be the rose and amaranth twined,
And Love, their mingled powers assuming,
Shall round his brows a chaplet bind,
For ever sweet, for ever blooming.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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Idyll
A village Chorus is supposed to be assembled, and about to
commence its festive procession.
[Written for the birthday of the Duchess Louisa of Weimar.]
CHORUS.
THE festal day hail ye
With garlands of pleasure,
And dances' soft measure,
With rapture commingled
And sweet choral song.
DAMON.
Oh, how I yearn from out the crowd to flee!
What joy a secret glade would give to me!
Amid the throng, the turmoil here,
Confined the plain, the breezes e'en appear.
CHORUS.
Now order it truly,
That ev'ry one duly
May roam and may wander,
Now here, and now yonder,
The meadows along.
[The Chorus retreats gradually, and the song becomes fainter and
fainter, till it dies away in the distance.]
DAMON.
In vain ye call, in vain would lure me on;
True my heart speaks,--but with itself alone.
And if I may view
A blessing-fraught land,
The heaven's clear blue,
And the plain's verdant hue,
Alone I'll rejoice,
Undisturbed by man's voice.
And there I'll pay homage
To womanly merit,
Observe it in spirit,
In spirit pay homage;
To echo alone
Shall my secret be known.
CHORUS.
[Faintly mingling with Damon's song in the distance.]
To echo--alone--
Shall my secret--be known.--
MENALCAS.
My friend, why meet I here with thee?
Thou hast'nest not to join the festal throng?
No longer stay, but come with me,
And mingle in the dance and song.
DAMON.
Thou'rt welcome, friend! but suffer me to roam
Where these old beeches hide me from man's view:
Love seeks in solitude a home,
And homage may retreat there too.
MENALCAS.
Thou seekest here a spurious fame,
And hast a mind to-day to grieve me.
Love as thy portion thou mayst claim
But homage thou must share with all, believe me!
When their voices thousands raise,
And the dawn of morning praise,
Rapture bringing,
Blithely singing
On before us,
Heart and ear in pleasure vie;
And when thousands join in chorus,
With the feelings brightly glowing,
And the wishes overflowing,
Forcibly they'll bear thee high.
[The Chorus gradually approaches, from the distance.]
DAMON.
Distant strains are hither wending,
And I'm gladden'd by the throng;
Yes, they're coming,--yes, descending
To the valley from the height,
MENALCAS.
Let us haste, our footsteps blending
With the rhythm of the song!
Yes, they come; their course they're bending
Tow'rd the wood's green sward so bright.
CHORUS.
[Gradually becoming louder.]
Yes, we hither come, attending
With the harmony of song,
As the hours their race are ending
On this day of blest delight.
ALL.
Let none reveal
The thoughts we feel,
The aims we own!
Let joy alone
Disclose the story!
She'll prove it right
And her delight
Includes the glory,
Includes the bliss
Of days like this!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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The Halcyon
Why o'er the verdant banks of Ouse
Does yonder Halcyon speed so fast?
'Tis all because she would not lose
Her favourite calm, that will not last.
The sun with azure paints the skies,
The stream reflects each flowery spray,
And, frugal of her time, she flies
To take her fill of love and play!
See her, when rugged Boreas blows,
Warm in some rocky cell remain;
To seek for pleasure, well she knows,
Would only then enhance the pain.
'Descend,' she cries, 'thou hated shower,
Deform my limpid waves to-day,
For I have chose a fairer hour
To take my fill of love and play!'
You, too, my Silvia, sure will own
Life's azure seasons swiftly roll,
And when our youth or health is flown,
To think of love, but shocks the soul.
Could Damon but deserve thy charms,
As thou art Damon's only theme;
He'd fly as quick to Celia's arms
As yonder Halcyon stems the stream.
poem by William Shenstone
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To S. M. A Young African Painter, On Seeing His Works
TO show the lab'ring bosom's deep intent,
And thought in living characters to paint,
When first thy pencil did those beauties give,
And breathing figures learnt from thee to live,
How did those prospects give my soul delight,
A new creation rushing on my sight?
Still, wond'rous youth! each noble path pursue,
On deathless glories fix thine ardent view:
Still may the painter's and the poet's fire
To aid thy pencil, and thy verse conspire!
And may the charms of each seraphic theme
Conduct thy footsteps to immortal fame!
High to the blissful wonders of the skies
Elate thy soul, and raise thy wishful eyes.
Thrice happy, when exalted to survey
That splendid city, crown'd with endless day,
Whose twice six gates on radiant hinges ring:
Celestial Salem blooms in endless spring.
Calm and serene thy moments glide along,
And may the muse inspire each future song!
Still, with the sweets of contemplation bless'd,
May peace with balmy wings your soul invest!
But when these shades of time are chas'd away,
And darkness ends in everlasting day,
On what seraphic pinions shall we move,
And view the landscapes in the realms above?
There shall thy tongue in heav'nly murmurs flow,
And there my muse with heav'nly transport glow:
No more to tell of Damon's tender sighs,
Or rising radiance of Aurora's eyes,
For nobler themes demand a nobler strain,
And purer language on th' ethereal plain.
Cease, gentle muse! the solemn gloom of night
Now seals the fair creation from my sight.
poem by Phillis Wheatley
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Sylvia's Mother
Sylvia's mother says Sylvia's busy,
too busy to come to the phone .
Sylvia's mother says Sylvia's trying
to start a new life of her own.
Sylvia's mother says 'Sylvia's happy...
So why don't you leave her alone?'
And the operator says
'Forty cents more, for the next three minutes.'
Please Mrs. Avery, I've just got to talk to her
I'll only keep her a while
Please Mrs. Avery, just want to tell her
Goodbye !
Sylvia's mother says Sylvia's packing,
she's gonna be leaving today.
Sylvia's mother says Sylvia's marrying
a fellah down Galveston way .
Sylvia's mother says 'Please don't say nothing
to make her start crying and stay.'
And the operator says
'Forty cents more, for the next three minutes.'
Please Mrs. Avery, I've just got to talk to her
I'll only keep her a while
Please Mrs. Avery, just want to tell her
Goodbye !
Sylvia's mother says Sylvia's hurrying,
she's catching the nine'o'clock train.
Sylvia's mother says:'Take your umbrella,
cause Sylvie it's starting to rain.'
And Sylvia's mother says 'Thank you for calling
and Sir won't you come back again ?'
And the operator says
'Forty cents more, for the next three minutes.'
Please Mrs. Avery, I've just got to talk to her
I'll only keep her a while
Please Mrs. Avery, just want to tell her
Goodbye !
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Maybe I Was Damon In A Past Life
Maybe I was Damon Runyon in a past time
he died at age 66 which was the year I began my life.
I also write about someone I call the "Guy"
who maybe is kind of shy.
Damon wrote a play with Dolls & Guys
which was acted out in NYC—very true-not a lie.
I write about a Doll
who is cute and kind of small.
Damon also named his pet _____
almost like mine.
I write about a character with letter
beginning with N—
he was only a sponsor to me—
he wanted to be more than friends—
Just like Damon-
who writes about characters where
he actually supported them
in his writing he actually defends.
Damon also writes about baseball
I don't know baseball at all.
I am more of a poet who story-tells-
I write of the doll character nicknamed Mel.
See baseball is not my cup of tea—
but to Damon he was famous for
being a reporter known around the country.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on March 17,2012
poem by Christina Sunrise
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A Song : On The Green Margin
On the green margin of the brook,
Despairing Phyllida reclined,
Whilst every sigh, and every look,
Declared the anguish of her mind.
Am I less lovely then? (she cries,
And in the waves her form surveyed);
Oh yes, I see my languid eyes,
My faded cheek, my colour fled:
These eyes no more like lightning pierced,
These cheeks grew pale, when Damon first
His Phyllida betrayed.
The rose he in his bosom wore,
How oft upon my breast was seen!
And when I kissed the drooping flower,
Behold, he cried, it blooms again!
The wreaths that bound my braided hair,
Himself next day was proud to wear
At church, or on the green.
While thus sad Phyllida lamented,
Chance brought unlucky Thyrsis on;
Unwillingly the nymph consented,
But Damon first the cheat begun.
She wiped the fallen tears away,
Then sighed and blushed, as who would say
Ah! Thyrsis, I am won.
poem by William Cowper
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In Imitation of Cowley : The Garden
Fain would my Muse the flow'ry Treasures sing,
And humble glories of the youthful Spring;
Where opening Roses breathing sweets diffuse,
And soft Carnations show'r their balmy dews;
Where Lilies smile in virgin robes of white,
The thin Undress of superficial Light,
And vary'd Tulips show so dazzling gay,
Blushing in bright diversities of day.
Each painted flow'ret in the lake below
Surveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow;
And pale Narcissus on the bank, in vain
Transformed, gazes on himself again.
Here aged trees Cathedral Walks compose,
And mount the Hill in venerable rows:
There the green Infants in their beds are laid,
The Garden's Hope, and its expected shade.
Here Orange-trees with blooms and pendantis shine,
And vernal honours to their autumn join;
Exceed their promise in the ripen'd store,
Yet in the rising blossom promise more.
There in bright drops the crystal Fountains play,
By Laurels shielded from the piercing day;
Where Daphne, now a tree as once a maid,
Still from Apollo vindicates her shade,
Still turns her Beauties from th' invading beam,
Nor seeks in vain for succour to the Stream.
The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves,
At once a shelter from her boughs receives,
Where Summer's beauty midst of Winter stays,
And Winter's Coolness spite of Summer's rays.
poem by Alexander Pope
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The Price of An Equipage
Servum si potes, Ole, non habere,
Et regem potes, Ole, non habere. Mart.
('If thou from Fortune dost no servant crave,
Believe me thou no master need'st to have.')
I ask'd a friend, amidst the throng,
Whose coach it was that trail'd along?
'The gilded coach there - don't ye mind?
That with the footmen stuck behind.'
'O Sir!' says he, 'what! han't you seen it?
'Tis Damon's Coach, and Damon in it.
'Tis odd, methinks, you have forgot
Your friend, your neighbour, and - what not!
Your old acquaintance Damon!' - 'True;
But faith his Equipage is new.'
'Bless me,' said I, 'where can it end?
That madness has possess'd my friend?
Four powder'd slaves, and those the tallest,
Their stomachs, doubtless, not the smallest!
Can Damon's revenue maintain,
In lace and food, so large a train?
I know his land - each inch of ground -
'Tis not a mile to walk it round -
If Damon's whole estate can bear
To keep his lad and one-horse chair,
I own 'tis past my comprehension.'
'Yes, Sir; but Damon has a pension.'
Thus does a false ambition rule us,
Thus pomp delude, and folly fool us;
To keep a race of flickering knaves,
He grows himself the worst of slaves.
poem by William Shenstone
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A Pastoral Between Thirsis And Corydon, Upon The Death Of Damon, By Whom Is Meant Mr. W. Riddell
Thir.
Say, tell me true, what is the doleful cause
That Corydon is not the man he was?
Your cheerful presence used to lighten cares,
And from the plains to banish gloomy fears.
Whene'er unto the circling swains you sung
Our ravish'd souls upon the music hung;
The gazing, listening flocks forgot their meat,
While vocal grottos did your lays repeat:
But now your gravity our mirth rebukes,
And in your downcast and desponding looks
Appears some fatal and impending woe;
I fear to ask, and yet desire to know.
Cor.
The doleful news, how shall I, Thirsis, tell!
In blooming youth the hapless Damon fell:
He's dead, he's dead, and with him all my joy;
The mournful thought does all gay forms destroy:
This is the cause of my unusual grief,
Which sullenly admits of no relief.
Thir.
Begone all mirth! begone all sports and play,
To a deluge of grief and tears give way.
Damon the just, the generous, and the young,
Must Damon's worth and merit be unsung?
No, Corydon, the wondrous youth you knew
How as in years so he in virtue grew;
Embalm his fame in never dying verse,
As a just tribute to his doleful hearse.
Cor.
Assist me, mighty grief, my breast inspire
With generous heats and with thy wildest fire,
While in a solemn and a mournful strain
Of Damon gone for ever I complain.
Ye muses, weep; your mirth and songs forbear,
And for him sigh and shed a friendly tear;
He was your favourite, and by your aid
In charming verse his witty thoughts array'd;
He had of knowledge, learning, wit, a store,
To it denied he still press'd after more.
He was a pious and a virtuous soul,
And still press'd forward to the heavenly goal;
He was a faithful, true, and constant friend,
Faithful, and true, and constant to the end.
Ye flowers, hang down and droop your heads,
No more around your grateful odours spread;
Ye leafy trees, your blooming honours shed,
Damon for ever from your shade is fled;
Fled to the mansions of eternal light,
Where endless wonders strike his happy sight.
Ye birds, be mute, as through the trees you fly,
Mute as the grave wherein my friend does lie.
Ye winds, breathe sighs as through the air you rove,
And in sad pomp the trembling branches move.
Ye gliding brooks, O weep your channels dry,
My flowing tears them fully shall supply;
You in soft murmurs may your grief express,
And yours, you swains, in mournful songs compress.
I to some dark and gloomy shade will fly,
Dark as the grave wherein my friend does lie;
And for his death to lonely rocks complain
In mournful accents and a dying strain,
While pining echo answers me again.
poem by James Thomson
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To Cordelia
JULY, 1740.
From pompous life's dull masquerade,
From Pride's pursuits, and Passion's war,
Far, my Cordelia, very far,
To thee and me may Heaven assign
The silent pleasures of the shade,
The joys of peace, unenvied, though divine!
Safe in the calm embowering grove,
As thy own lovely brow serene;
Behold the world's fantastic scene!
What low pursuits employ the great,
What tinsel things their wishes move,
The forms of Fashion, and the toys of State.
In vain are all Contentment's charms,
Her placid mien, her cheerful eye;
For look, Cordelia, how they fly!
Allur'd by Power, Applause, or Gain,
They fly her kind protecting arms;
Ah, blind to pleasure, and in love with pain!
Turn and indulge a fairer view,
Smile on the joys which here conspire;
O joys harmonious as my lyre!
O prospect of enchanting things,
As ever slumbering poet knew,
When Love and Fancy wrapt him in their wings!
Here, no rude storm of Passion blows,
But Sports, and Smiles, and Virtues play,
Cheer'd by Affection's purest ray;
The air still breathes Contentment's balm,
And the clear stream of Pleasure flows
For ever active, yet for ever calm.
poem by Mark Akenside
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The Indian Lover. Morning Song.
O'ER flowery fields of waving maize,
The breeze of morning lightly plays;
Arise, my Zumia! let us rove,
The cool and fragrant citron grove!
Fair nature spreads her lavish bloom,
And bids her zephyrs waft perfume;
She breathes ambrosial odours rare;
With cassia-fragrance fills the air,
And calls thee forth her sweets to share,
My lovely maid!
We'll mark each aromatic flower,
Expanding to the radiant hour;
We'll seek the scented orange-bower,
Or tam'rind shade;
Now, ere the fervid hours of day,
Arise, my Zumia! haste away!
Hark! from yonder palmy grove,
Swells the choral song of love!
There, on every weeping spray,
Warblers tune the melting lay:
Morning's roseate hues are spreading
Balmy essence, flowers are shedding;
Nature smiles, in green array,
My Zumia rise! no more delay!
Now glitt'ring in the lucid rays,
The humming-bird his wing displays
Floats on the sun-beam and the gale,
From spicy wood, to myrtle-vale;
Flutters on light, ethereal plume,
In tints of orient beauty drest;
Steals honey from the glowing bloom,
And weaves the fairy-nest.
I'll climb each tall, aspiring tree,
To seek nectareous fruits for thee;
I'll cull the blossoms op'ning fair,
In blushing wreaths to bind thy hair:
For thee the streams in murmurs flow;
For thee the buds empurpling glow;
For thee the balmy zephyrs play;
Arise, my Zumia! haste away!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Daphne's Visit
Ye birds! for whom I rear'd the grove,
With melting lay salute my love;
My Daphne with your notes detain,
Or I have rear'd my grove in vain.
Ye flowers! before her footsteps rise:
Display at once your brightest dyes;
That she your opening charms may see,
Or what are all your charms to me?
Kind Zephyr! brush each fragrant flower,
And shed its odours round my bower;
Or never more, O gentle Wind!
Shall I from thee refreshment find.
Ye Streams! if e'er your banks I loved,
If e'er your native sounds improved,
May each soft murmur soothe my fair,
Or oh! 'twill deepen my despair.
And thou, my Grot! whose lonely bounds
The melancholy pine surrounds,
May Daphne praise thy peaceful gloom,
Or thou shalt prove her Damon's tomb.
poem by William Shenstone
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Verses, To William Lyttleton, Esq.
How blithely pass'd the summer's day!
How bright was every flower!
While friends arrived in circles gay,
To visit Damon's bower!
But now, with silent step I range
Along some lonely shore;
And Damon's bower, alas the change!
Is gay with friends no more.
Away to crowds and cities borne,
In quest of joy they steer,
Whilst I, alas! am left forlorn,
To weep the parting year!
O pensive autumn! how I grieve
Thy sorrowing face to see!
When languid suns are taking leave
Of every drooping tree.
Ah! let me not, with heavy eye,
This dying scene survey!
Haste Winter! Haste! usurp the sky;
Complete my bower's decay.
Ill can I bear the motley cast
Yon sickening leaves retain;
That speak at once of pleasure past,
And bode approaching pain.
At home, unblest, I gaze around,
My distant scenes require;
Where, all in murky vapours drown'd,
Are hamlet, hill, and spire.
Though Thomson, sweet descriptive bard!
Inspiring Autumn sung;
Yet how should we the months regard,
That stopt his flowing tongue?
Ah! luckless months, of all the rest,
To whose hard share it fell!
For sure his was the gentlest breast
That ever sung so well.
And see, the swallows now disown
The roofs they loved before,
Each, like his tuneful genius, flown
To glad some happier shore.
The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright,
The sportsman's frantic deed,
While hounds, and horns, and yells, unite
To drown the Muse's reed.
Ye fields, with blighted herbage brown!
Ye skies, no longer blue!
Too much we feel from Fortune's frown
To bear these frowns from you.
Where is the mead's unsullied green?
The zephyr's balmy gale?
And where sweet friendship's cordial mien,
That brighten'd every vale?
What though the vine disclose her dyes,
And boast her purple store?
Not all the vineyard's rich supplies
Can soothe our sorrows more.
He! he is gone, whose moral strain
Could wit and mirth refine;
He! he is gone, whose social vein
Surpass'd the power of wine.
Fast by the streams he deign'd to praise,
In yon sequester'd grove,
To him a votive urn I raise,
To him, and friendly Love.
Yes, there, my friend! forlorn and sad
I grave your Thomson's name,
And there, his lyre; which Fate forbade
To sound your growing fame.
There shall my plaintive song recount
Dark themes of hopeless woe,
And faster than the drooping fount
I'll teach mine eyes to flow.
There leaves, in spite of Autumn green,
Shall shade the hallow'd ground,
And Spring will there again be seen
To call forth flowers around.
But no kind suns will bid me share,
Once more, his social hour;
Ah! Spring! thou never canst repair
This loss to Damon's bower.
poem by William Shenstone
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