The Princess Elizabeth, when a prisoner at Woodstock, 1554
Will you hear how once repining
Great Eliza captive lay,
Each ambitious thought resigning,
Foe to riches, pomp, and sway?
While the nymphs and swains delighted
Tripp'd around in all their pride,
Envying joys by others slighted,
Thus the royal maiden cried:
'Bred on plains, or born in valleys,
Who would bid those scenes adieu?
Stranger to the arts of malice,
Who would ever courts pursue?
Malice never taught to treasure,
Censure never taught to bear;
Love is all the shepherd's pleasure;
Love is all the damsel's care.
How can they of humble station
Vainly blame the powers above
Or accuse the dispensation
Which allows them all to love?
Love, like air, is widely given;
Power nor chance can these restraint;
Truest, noblest, gifts of heaven!
Only purest on the plain!
Peers can no such charms discover,
All in stars and garters drest,
As on Sundays does the lover,
With his nosegay on his breast.
Pinks and roses in profusion,
Said to fade when Chloe's near;
Fops may use the same allusion,
But the shepherd is sincere.
Hark to yonder milkmaid singing
Cheerly o'er the brimming pail,
Cowslips all around her springing
Sweetly paint the golden vale.
Never yet did courtly maiden
Move so sprightly, look so fair;
Never breast with jewels laden
Pour a song so void of care.
Would indulgent heaven had granted
Me some rural damsel's part!
All the empire I had wanted
Then had been my shepherd's heart.
Then with him o'er hills and mountains
Free from fetters, might I rove,
Fearless taste the crystal fountains,
Peaceful sleep beneath the grove.
Rustics had been more forgiving,
Partial to my virgin bloom;
None had envied my when living,
None had triumph'd o'er my tomb.'
poem by William Shenstone
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Eclogue the Third Abra
SCENE, a forest TIME, the Evening
In Georgia's land, where Tefflis' towers are seen,
In distant view along the level green,
While evening dews enrich the glittering glade,
And the tall forests cast a longer shade,
Amidst the maids of Zagen's peaceful grove,
Emyra sung the pleasing cares of love.
Of Abra first began the tender strain,
Who led her youth with flocks upon the plain.
At morn she came those willing flocks to lead,
Where lilies rear them in the watery mead;
From early dawn the livelong hours she told,
Till late at silent ev'n she penned the fold.
Deep in the grove beneath the secret shade,
A various wreath of odorous flowers she made.
Gay-motleyed pinks and sweet jonquils she chose,
The violet-blue that on the moss-bank grows;
All-sweet to sense, the flaunting rose was there;
The finished chaplet well-adorned her hair.
Great Abbas chanced that fated morn to stray,
By love conducted from the chase away;
Among the vocal vales he heard her song,
And sought the vales and echoing groves among.
At length he found and wooed the rural maid:
She knew the monarch, and with fear obeyed.
Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved.
The royal lover bore her from the plain,
Yet still her crook and bleating flock remain:
Oft as she went, she backward turned her view,
And bade that crook and bleating flock adieu.
Fair happy maid! to other scenes remove,
To richer scenes of golden power and love!
Go leave the simple pipe and shepherd's strain,
With love delight thee, and with Abbas reign.
Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved.
Yet midst the blaze of courts she fixed her love
On the cool fountain or the shady grove;
Still with the shepherd's innocence her mind
To the sweet vale and flowery mead inclined,
And oft as spring renewed the plains with flowers,
Breathed his soft gales and led the fragrant hours,
With sure return she sought the sylvan scene,
The breezy mountains and the forests green.
Her maids around her moved, a duteous band!
Each bore a crook all-rural in her hand.
Some simple lay of flocks and herds they sung;
With joy the mountain and the forest rung.
Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved.
And oft the royal lover left the care
And thorns of state, attendant on the fair:
Oft to the shades and low-roofed cots retired,
Or sought the vale where first his heart was fired;
A russet mantle, like a swain, he wore,
And thought of crowns and busy courts no more.
Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved.
Blest was the life that royal Abbas led:
Sweet was his love and innocent his bed.
What if in wealth the noble maid excel;
The simple shepherd girl can love as well.
Let those who rule on Persia's jewelled throne,
Be famed for love and gentlest love alone:
Or wreathe, like Abbas, full of fair renown,
The lover's myrtle with the warrior's crown.
Oh happy days! the maids around her say,
Oh haste, profuse of blessings, haste away!
Be every youth like royal Abbas moved,
And every Georgian maid like Abra loved.
poem by William Taylor Collins
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Gracious Good Shepherd
Gracious good shepherd
Do you really know who I am?
Gracious good shepherd
Will you answer when I call your name?
Gracious good shepherd
You can hear confusion crying out
Gracious good shepherd
What little faith I have I am ashamed
I visualize an angel
All freezing and bitter cold
I cannot believe the love there
What heavenly sacrifice
Gracious good shepherd
If you hear me now, I love you so
Gracious good shepherd
Why for me?
Gracious good shepherd
You say you love the lost born
Gracious good shepherd
I believe that one is me
Some tell me the virgin birth is
A beautiful ancient tale
But you tell me gods constellation
Led all to the living well
Gracious good shepherd
If you hear me now, I love you so
Gracious good shepherd
Why, why for me?
Gracious good shepherd
Do you really know who I am?
Gracious good shepherd
Will you answer when I call your name?
Gracious good shepherd
These are different times, Im sure you see
Gracious good shepherd
We need, you now
song performed by by Vanessa Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Inscriptions: III: Whoe'er Thou Art Whose Pat In Summer Lies
Whoe'er thou art whose path in summer lies
Through yonder village, turn thee where the grove
Of branching oaks a rural palace old
Imbosoms. there dwells Albert, generous lord
Of all the harvest round. and onward thence
A low plain chapel fronts the morning light
Fast by a silent riv'let. Humbly walk,
O stranger, o'er the consecrated ground;
And on that verdant hilloc, which thou see'st
Beset with osiers, let thy pious hand
Sprinkle fresh water from the brook and strew
Sweet-smelling flowers. for there doth Edmund rest,
The learned shepherd; for each rural art
Fam'd, and for songs harmonious, and the woes
Of ill-requited love. The faithless pride
Of fair Matilda sank him to the grave
In manhood's prime. But soon did righteous heaven
With tears, with sharp remorse, and pining care,
Avenge her falshood. nor could all the gold
And nuptial pomp, which lur'd her plighted faith
From Edmund to a loftier husband's home,
Relieve her breaking heart, or turn aside
The strokes of death. Go, traveller; relate
The mournful story. haply some fair maid
May hold it in remembrance, and be taught
That riches cannot pay for truth or love.
poem by Mark Akenside
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A Pastoral Ode. To the Hon. Sir Richard Lyttleton
The morn dispensed a dubious light,
A sudden mist had stolen from sight
Each pleasing vale and hill;
When Damon left his humble bowers,
To guard his flocks, to fence his flowers,
Or check his wandering rill.
Though school'd from Fortune's paths to fly,
The swain beneath each lowering sky
Would oft his fate bemoan,
That he, in sylvan shades forlorn,
Must waste his cheerless even and morn,
Nor praised, nor loved, nor known.
No friend to Fame's obstreperous noise,
Yet to the whispers of her voice,
Soft murmuring, not a foe:
The pleasures he through choice declined,
When gloomy fogs depress'd his mind,
It grieved him to forego.
Grieved him to lurk the lakes beside,
Where coots in rushy dingles hide,
And moorcocks shun the day;
While caitiff bitterns, undismay'd,
Remark the swain's familiar shade,
And scorn to quit their prey.
But see the radiant sun once more,
The brightening face of heaven restore,
And raise the doubtful dawn;
And, more to gild his rural sphere,
At once the brightest train appear
That ever trod the lawn.
Amazement chill'd the shepherd's frame,
To think Bridgewater's honour'd name
Should grace his rustic cell;
That she, on all whose motions wait
Distinction, titles, rank, and state,
Should rove where shepherds dwell.
But true it is, the generous mind,
By candour sway'd, by taste refined,
Will nought but vice disdain;
Nor will the breast where fancy glows,
Deem every flower a weed that blows
Amid the desert plain.
Beseems it such, with honour crown'd,
To deal its lucid beams around,
Nor equal meed receive;
At most such garlands from the field,
As cowslips, pinks, and pansies, yield,
And rural hands can weave.
Yet strive, ye shepherds! strive to find,
And weave the fairest of the kind,
The prime of all the spring;
If haply thus you lovely fair
May, round her temples, deign to wear
The trivial wreaths you bring.
O how the peaceful halcyons play'd,
Where'er the conscious lake betray'd
Athena's placid mien!
How did the sprightlier linnets throng,
Where Paphia's charms required the song,
'Mid hazel copses green!
Lo, Dartmouth on those banks reclined,
While busy Fancy calls to mind
The glories of his line!
Methinks my cottage rears its head,
The ruin'd walls of yonder shed,
As through enchantment, shine.
But who the nymph that guides their way?
Could ever nymph descend to stray
From Hagley's famed retreat?
Else, by the blooming features fair,
The faultless make, the matchless air,
'Twere Cynthia's form complete.
So would some tuberose delight,
That struck the pilgrim's wondering sight
'Mid lonely deserts drear;
All as at eve, the sovereign flower
Dispenses round its balmy power,
And crowns the fragrant year.
Ah! now no more, the shepherd cried,
Must I Ambition's charms deride,
Her subtle force disown;
No more of Fauns or Fairies dream,
While Fancy, near each crystal stream,
Shall paint these forms alone.
By low-brow'd rock or pathless mead,
I deem'd that splendour ne'er should lead
My dazzled eyes astray;
But who, alas! will dare contend,
If beauty add, or merit blend,
Its more illustrious ray?
Nor is it long, O plaintive swain!
Since Guernsey saw, without disdain,
Where, hid in woodlands green,
The partner of his early days,
And once the rival of his praise,
Had stolen through life unseen.
Scarce faded is the vernal flower,
Since Stamford left his honour'd bower
To smile familiar here:
O form'd by Nature to disclose,
How fair that courtesy which flows
From social warmth sincere!
Nor yet have many moons decay'd,
Since Pollio sought this lonely shade,
Admired this rural maze:
The noblest breast that Virtue fires,
The Graces love, the Muse inspires,
Might pant for Pollio's praise.
Say, Thomson here was known to rest;
For him you vernal seat I drest,
Ah, never to return!
In place of wit and melting strains,
And social mirth, it now remains
To weep beside his urn.
Come then, my Lelius! come once more,
And fringe the melancholy shore
With roses and with bays,
While I each wayward Fate accuse,
That envied his impartial Muse,
To sing your early praise.
While Philo, to whose favour'd sight
Antiquity, with full delight,
Her inmost wealth displays;
Beneath yon ruin's moulder'd wall
Shall muse, and with his friends recall
The pomp of ancient days.
Here, too, shall Conway's name appear;
He praised the stream so lovely clear,
That shone the reeds among;
Yet clearness could it not disclose,
To match the rhetoric that flows
From Conway's polish'd tongue.
Even Pitt, whose fervent periods roll
Resistless through the kindling soul
Of senates, councils, kings-
Though form'd for courts, vouchsafed to rove,
Inglorious, through the shepherd's grove,
And ope his bashful springs.
But what can courts discover more
Than these rude haunts have seen before,
Each fount and shady tree?
Have not these trees and fountains seen
The pride of courts, the winning mien
Of peerless Aylesbury?
And Grenville, she whose radiant eyes
Have mark'd by slow gradation rise
The princely piles of Stowe;
Yet praised these unembellish'd woods,
And smiled to see the babbling floods
Through self-worn mazes flow.
Say, Dartmouth, who your banks admired,
Again beneath your caves retired,
Shall grace the pensive shade;
With all the bloom, with all the truth,
With all the sprightliness of youth,
By cool reflection sway'd?
Brave, yet humane, shall Smith appear;
Ye sailors! though his name be dear,
Think him not yours alone:
Grant him in other spheres to charm;
The shepherds' breasts though mild are warm,
And ours are all his own.
O Lyttleton! my honour'd guest,
Could I describe thy generous breast,
Thy firm yet polish'd mind;
How public love adorns thy name,
How Fortune, too, conspires with Fame;
The song should please mankind.
poem by William Shenstone
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Now What Is Love
Now what is Love, I pray thee, tell?
It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell;
It is, perhaps, the sauncing bell
That tolls all into heaven or hell;
And this is Love, as I hear tell.
Yet what is Love, I prithee, say?
It is a work on holiday,
It is December matched with May,
When lusty bloods in fresh array
Hear ten months after of the play;
And this is Love, as I hear say.
Yet what is Love, good shepherd, sain?
It is a sunshine mixed with rain,
It is a toothache or like pain,
It is a game where none hath gain;
The lass saith no, yet would full fain;
And this is Love, as I hear sain.
Yet, shepherd, what is Love, I pray?
It is a yes, it is a nay,
A pretty kind of sporting fray,
It is a thing will soon away.
Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may;
And this is Love, as I hear say.
Yet what is Love, good shepherd, show?
A thing that creeps, it cannot go,
A prize that passeth to and fro,
A thing for one, a thing for moe,
And he that proves shall find it so;
And shepherd, this is Love, I trow.
poem by Sir Walter Raleigh
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The Faithless Shepherdess
WHILE that the sun with his beams hot
Scorched the fruits in vale and mountain,
Philon the shepherd, late forgot,
Sitting beside a crystal fountain
In shadow of a green oak tree,
Upon his pipe this song play'd he:
Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love!
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love!
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
So long as I was in your sight
I was your heart, your soul, your treasure;
And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd
Burning in flames beyond all measure:
--Three days endured your love to me,
And it was lost in other three!
Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love!
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love!
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
Another shepherd you did see,
To whom your heart was soon enchained;
Full soon your love was leapt from me,
Full soon my place he had obtained.
Soon came a third your love to win,
And we were out and he was in.
Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love!
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love!
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
Sure you have made me passing glad
That you your mind so soon removed,
Before that I the leisure had
To choose you for my best beloved:
For all my love was pass'd and done
Two days before it was begun.
Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love!
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love!
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
CRABB'D Age and Youth
Cannot live together:
Youth is full of pleasance,
Age is full of care;
Youth like summer morn,
Age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave,
Age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport,
Age's breath is short;
Youth is nimble, Age is lame;
Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild, and Age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee;
Youth, I do adore thee;
O, my Love, my Love is young!
Age, I do defy thee:
O, sweet shepherd, hie thee!
For methinks thou stay'st too long.
poem by William Byrd
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A Pastoral Dialogue Between Two Shepherdesses
[Silvia] Pretty Nymph! within this Shade,
Whilst the Flocks to rest are laid,
Whilst the World dissolves in Heat,
Take this cool, and flow'ry Seat:
And with pleasing Talk awhile
Let us two the Time beguile;
Tho' thou here no Shepherd see,
To encline his humble Knee,
Or with melancholy Lays
Sing thy dangerous Beauty's Praise.
[Dorinda] Nymph! with thee I here wou'd stay,
But have heard, that on this Day,
Near those Beeches, scarce in view,
All the Swains some Mirth pursue:
To whose meeting now I haste.
Solitude do's Life but waste.
[Silvia] Prithee, but a Moment stay.
[Dorinda] No! my Chaplet wou'd decay;
Ev'ry drooping Flow'r wou'd mourn,
And wrong the Face, they shou'd adorn.
[Silvia] I can tell thee, tho' so Fair,
And dress'd with all that rural Care,
Most of the admiring Swains
Will be absent from the Plains.
Gay Sylvander in the Dance
Meeting with a shrew'd Mischance,
To his Cabin's now confin'd
By Mopsus, who the Strain did bind:
Damon through the Woods do's stray,
Where his Kids have lost their way:
Young Narcissus iv'ry Brow
Rac'd by a malicious Bough,
Keeps the girlish Boy from sight,
Till Time shall do his Beauty right.
[Dorinda] Where's Alexis?
[Silvia] –He, alas!
Lies extended on the Grass;
Tears his Garland, raves, despairs,
Mirth and Harmony forswears;
Since he was this Morning shown,
That Delia must not be his Own.
[Dorinda] Foolish Swain! such Love to place.
[Silvia] On any but Dorinda's Face.
[Dorinda] Hasty Nymph! I said not so.
[Silvia] No–but I thy Meaning know.
Ev'ry Shepherd thou wou'd'st have
Not thy Lover, but thy Slave;
To encrease thy captive Train,
Never to be lov'd again.
But, since all are now away,
Prithee, but a Moment stay.
[Dorinda] No; the Strangers, from the Vale,
Sure will not this Meeting fail;
Graceful one, the other Fair.
He too, with the pensive Air,
Told me, ere he came this way
He was wont to look more Gay.
[Silvia] See! how Pride thy Heart inclines
To think, for Thee that Shepherd pines;
When those Words, that reach'd thy Ear,
Chloe was design'd to hear;
Chloe, who did near thee stand,
And his more speaking Looks command.
[Dorinda] Now thy Envy makes me smile.
That indeed were worth his while:
Chloe next thyself decay'd,
And no more a courted Maid.
[Silvia] Next myself! Young Nymph, forbear.
Still the Swains allow me Fair,
Tho' not what I was that Day,
When Colon bore the Prize away;
When–
[Dorinda] –Oh, hold! that Tale will last,
Till all the Evening Sports are past;
Till no Streak of Light is seen,
Nor Footstep prints the flow'ry Green.
What thou wert, I need not know,
What I am, must haste to show.
Only this I now discern
From the things, thou'd'st have me learn,
That Woman-kind's peculiar Joys
From past, or present Beauties rise.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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Elegy IX. He Describes His Disinterestedness to a Friend
I ne'er must tinge my lip with Celtic wines;
The pomp of India must I ne'er display;
Nor boast the produce of Peruvian mines;
Nor with Italian sounds deceive the day.
Down yonder brook my crystal beverage flows;
My grateful sheep their annual fleeces bring;
Fair in my garden buds the damask rose,
And from my grove I hear the throstle sing.
My fellow swains! avert your dazzled eyes;
In vain allured by glittering spoils they rove;
The Fates ne'er meant them for the shepherd's prize,
Yet gave them ample recompence in love.
They gave you vigour from your parents' veins;
They gave you toils, but toils your sinews brace;
They gave you nymphs, that own their amorous pains;
And shades, the refuge of the gentle race.
To carve your loves, to paint your mutual flames,
See, polish'd fair, the beech's friendly rind!
To sing soft carols to your lovely dames,
See vocal grots and echoing vales assign'd!
Wouldst thou, my Strephon, Love's delighted slave!
Though sure the wreaths of chivalry to share,
Forego the riband thy Matilda gave,
And, giving, bade thee in remembrance wear?
Ill fare my peace, but every idle toy,
If to my mind my Delia's form it brings,
Has truer worth, imparts sincerer joy,
Than all that bears the radiant stamp of kings.
O my soul weeps, my breast with anguish bleeds,
When Love deplores the tyrant power of Gain!
Disdaining riches as the futile weeds,
I rise superior, and the rich disdain.
Oft from the stream, slow-wandering down the glade,
Pensive I hear the nuptial peal rebound:
'Some miser weds,' I cry, 'the captive maid,
And some fond lover sickens at the sound.'
Not Somerville, the Muse's friend of old,
Though now exalted to yon ambient sky,
So shunn'd a soul distain'd with earth and gold,
So loved the pure, the generous breast, as I.
Scorn'd be the wretch that quits his genial bowl,
His loves, his friendships, even his self resigns;
Perverts the sacred instinct of his soul,
And to a ducat's dirty sphere confines.
But come, my Friend! with taste, with science blest,
Ere age impair me, and ere gold allure:
Restore thy dear idea to my breast,
The rich deposit shall the shrine secure.
Let others toil to gain the sordid ore,
The charms of independence let us sing:
Bless'd with thy friendship, can I wish for more?
I'll spurn the boasted wealth of Lydia's king.
poem by William Shenstone
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Eclogue the First Selim
SCENE, a Valley near Bagdat TIME, the Morning
`Ye Persian maids, attend your poet's lays,
And hear how shepherds pass their golden days:
Not all are blest, whom fortune's hand sustains
With wealth in courts, nor all that haunt the plains:
Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell;
'Tis virtue makes the bliss, where'er we dwell.'
Thus Selim sung, by sacred Truth inspired;
No praise the youth, but hers alone, desired.
Wise in himself, his meaning songs conveyed
Informing morals to the shepherd maid,
Or taught the swains that surest bliss to find,
What groves nor streams bestow, a virtuous mind.
When sweet and odorous, like an eastern bride,
The radiant morn resumed her orient pride,
When wanton gales along the valleys play,
Breathe on each flower, and bear their sweets away:
By Tigris' wandering waves he sat, and sung
This useful lesson for the fair and young.
`Ye Persian dames,' he said, `to you belong,
Well may they please, the morals of my song;
No fairer maids, I trust, than you are found,
Graced with soft arts, the peopled world around!
The morn that lights you to your loves supplies
Each gentler ray delicious to your eyes:
For you those flowers her fragrant hands bestow,
And yours the love that kings delight to know.
Yet think not these, all beauteous as they are,
The best kind blessings heaven can grant the fair!
Who trust alone in beauty's feeble ray,
Balsora's pearls have more of worth than they;
Drawn from the deep, they sparkle to the sight,
And all-unconscious shoot a lustrous light:
Such are the maids and such the charms they boast,
By sense unaided or to virtue lost.
Self-flattering sex! your hearts believe in vain
That love shall blind when once he fires the swain,
Or hope a lover by your faults to win,
As spots on ermine beautify the skin.
Who seeks secure to rule, be first her care
Each softer virtue that adorns the fair,
Each tender passion man delights to find,
The loved perfections of a female mind.
`Blest were the days when Wisdom held her reign,
And shepherds sought her on the silent plain;
With Truth she wedded in the secret grove,
The fair-eyed Truth, and daughters blessed their love.
`O haste, fair maids, ye Virtues, come away,
Sweet Peace and Plenty lead you on your way!
The balmy shrub for you shall love our shore,
By Ind excelled or Araby no more.
`Lost to our fields, for so the fates ordain,
The dear deserters shall return again.
O come thou, Modesty, as they decree,
The rose may then improve her blush by thee.
Here make thy court amidst our rural scene,
And shepherd-girls shall own thee for their queen.
With thee be Chastity, of all afraid,
Distrusting all, a wise suspicious maid,
But man the most -- not more the mountain doe
Holds the swift falcon for her deadly foe.
Cold is her breast, like flowers that drink the dew;
A silken veil conceals her from the view.
No wild desires amidst thy train be known,
But Faith, whose heart is fixed on one alone;
Desponding Meekness with her down-cast eyes,
And friendly Pity full of tender sighs;
And Love the last: by these your hearts approve,
These are the Virtues that must lead to love.'
Thus sung the swain, and eastern legends say
The maids of Bagdat verified the lay:
Dear to the plains, the Virtues came along,
The shepherds loved, and Selim blessed his song.
poem by William Taylor Collins
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Written in a Collection of Bacchanalian Songs
Adieu, ye jovial Youths! who join
To plunge old Care in floods of wine;
And, as your dazzled eyeballs roll,
Discern him struggling in the bowl.
Nor yet is hope so wholly flown,
Nor yet is thought so tedious grown,
But limpid stream and shady tree
Retain, as yet, some sweets for me.
And see, through yonder silent grove,
See, yonder does my Daphne rove!
With pride her footsteps I pursue,
And bid your frantic joys adieu.
The sole confusion I admire,
Is that my Daphne's eyes inspire;
I scorn the madness you approve,
And value reason next to love.
poem by William Shenstone
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The Despairing Shepherd
Alexis shun'd his Fellow Swains,
Their rural Sports, and jocund Strains:
(Heav'n guard us all from Cupid's Bow!)
He lost his Crook, He left his Flocks;
And wand'ring thro' the lonely Rocks,
He nourish'd endless Woe.
The Nymphs and Shepherds round Him came:
His Grief Some pity, Others blame:
The fatal Cause All kindly seek.
He mingled his Concern with Their's:
He gave 'em back their friendly Tears:
He sigh'd, but would not speak.
Clorinda came among the rest:
And She too kind Concern exprest,
And ask'd the Reason of his Woe:
She ask'd, but with an Air and Mein,
That made it easily foreseen,
She fear'd too much to know.
The Shepherd rais'd his mournful Head:
And will You pardon Me, He said,
While I the cruel Truth reveal?
Which nothing from my Breast should tear;
Which never should offend Your Ear;
But that You bid Me tell.
'Tis thus I rove, 'tis thus complain;
Since You appear'd upon the Plain:
You are the Cause of all my Care:
Your Eyes ten thousand Dangers dart:
Ten thousand Torments vex My Heart:
I love, and I despair.
Too much, Alexis, I have heard:
'Tis what I thought; 'tis what I fear'd:
And yet I pardon You, She cry'd:
But You shall promise ne'er again
To breath your Vows, or speak your Pain:
He bow'd, obey'd, and dy'd.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Two Fine People
Now that Ive passed your test
How can I prove to you baby Ill never let you down
If I led you around, Im sorry
But I never meant to worry you.... no
Now that Ive kissed your breast
How can I prove to you baby Ill never make you sad
If I ever had , do believe your tears tears wont come back again
I love you, though the stars may fade
And mountains turn into sand. I love you
til my body changes into an old man. I love you
And the song that I sing is the only way that I can explain
La la la la la la
You know I wish for you baby nothing but good times ahead
Anything that heaven can give you, I can give you instead
La la la la la la
How could I lie to you baby, Ill never lead you around
Ill take care of everything you need, darling
Every little needll be found. I love you
Thought the time may change and snowmen sleep in the sea
And I really only want you to want me. I love you
And the song that I sing is the only way that I can explain
Now that youve shown your heart
Ill be right with you baby, Ill never leave you alone
Anywhere you want me to be honey, Ill be there to have and to hold
And now that the clouds roll back, hold on to me baby
Were going never to land, flying on the power of love
Flying on the power of love. I love you
Though time may fade and mountains turn into sand
I love you, til the very same come back to the land
I love you and the song that I sing is the only way that
I can explain
Two fine people should love each other
Two fine people should help each other
song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Pastoral Entertainment
While in heroic numbers some relate
The amazing turns of wise eternal fate;
Exploits of heroes in the dusty field,
That to their name immortal honour yield;
Grant me, ye powers, by the limpid spring
The harmless of the plain to sing,
A wreath of flowers cull'd from the
Is all the my humble muse demands.
Now blithsome shepherds, by the early dawn,
Their new shorn flocks drive to the dewy lawn;
While, in a bleating language, each salutes
The welcome morning and their fellow brutes:
Then all prepared for the rural feast,
And in their finest Sunday habits drest;
The crystal brook supplied the mirror's place,
They bathed and viewed their cleanly face,
And nymphs resorted to the fields
Pomp the country yields.
The place appointed was a spacious vale,
Fann'd always by a cooling western gale,
Which in soft breezes through the meadows stray,
And steals the ripened fragrancies away;
Here every shepherd might his flocks survey,
Securely roam and take his harmless play;
And here were flowers each shepherdess to grace,
On her fair bosom courting but a place.
How in this vale, beneath a grateful shade,
By twining boughs of spreading made,
On seats of homely turf themselves they place,
And cheerfully enjoyed the rural feast,
Consisting of the produce of the fields,
And all the luxury the country yields.
No maddening liquors spoil'd their harmless mirth,
But an untainted spring their thirst allayed,
Which in meadows through the valley strayed.
Thrice happy swains who spend your golden days
In pastime; and when night displays
Her sable shade, to peaceful huts retire;
Can any man a sweeter bliss desire?
In ancient times so pass'd the smiling hour,
When our first parents lived in Eden's bower,
E'er care and trouble were pronounced,
Or sin had blasted the creation.
poem by James Thomson
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Of Pearls And Stars
The pearly treasures of the sea,
The lights that spatter heaven above,
More precious than these wonders are
My heart-of-hearts filled with your love.
The ocean's power, the heavenly sights
Cannot outweigh a love filled heart.
And sparkling stars or glowing pearls
Pale as love flashes, beams and darts.
So, little, youthful maiden come
Into my ample, feverish heart
For heaven and earth and sea and sky
Do melt as love has melt my heart.
The following English translation of 'The Sea Hath its Pearls' was composed by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882).
The Sea Hath Its Pearls
The sea hath its pearls,
The heaven hath its stars;
But my heart, my heart,
My heart hath its love.
Great are the sea, and the heaven;
Yet greater is my heart,
And fairer than pearls or stars
Flashes and beams my love.
Thou little, youthful maiden,
Come unto my great heart;
My heart, and the sea and the heaven
Are melting away with love!
poem by Heinrich Heine
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Azolan
At village lived, in days of yore,
A youth bred in Mahomet's lore;
His well-turned limbs were formed with grace,
With blooming beauty glowed his face;
His name was Azolan, with care
The Koran he had written fair;
Was on its study ever bent,
To get it all by heart he meant.
From the most early youth his breast
By zeal for Gabriel was possessed;
This minister of the most high
Descended to him from the sky.
'The zeal that in thy bosom glows,'
Said he, 'thy guardian Gabriel knows:
To Gabriel gratitude is dear,
To make your fortune I'm come here;
You'll in short time as first divine
Of Medina and Mecca shine;
This, next to his place who is chief
Of all who hold the true belief,
Is the most high and wealthy station
In holy Mahomet's donation.
When you your duties once begin,
Honors on all sides will pour in;
But you a solemn oath must make
The whole sex female to forsake;
To lead a life most chaste, and ne'er
But through a grate to view the fair.'
Too hastily the beauteous boy,
That he church treasures might enjoy,
Fell easily into the snare,
Nor of his folly was aware.
Our new-made imam was elate,
Seeing himself become so great;
His joy the salary enhanced,
Which was immediately advanced
by a clerk of important air,
Who with him still went share and share.
No joy can dignity supply,
Nor wealth, should love his aid deny.
Amina fair by chance he spies,
With youthful bloom and charming eyes;
He loves Amina, she in turn
For him feels love's flame equal burn.
Each morning as the day returned,
The youth, who with love's flames still burned,
Being by his cursed oath enchained,
Of his sad slavery complained,
Avowing freely in his heart,
That he had played a foolish part.
'Then, Medina, farewell,' he cried,
'Mecca, vain pomp and foolish pride;
Amina, mistress of my breast,
We'll both live in my village blessed.'
From heaven the archangel made descent,
Severely to reproach him bent:
The tender lover thus replies:
'Do but behold my mistress' eyes;
I find of me you've made a jest,
I'm by your contract quite distressed;
With all you gave I'll freely part,
I ask alone Amina's heart.
The prudent and the sacred lore
Of Mahomet I must adore;
Love's joys he grants to the elect,
Nay, he allows them to expect
Aminas and eternal love,
In his bright Paradise above.
To heaven again, dear Gabriel, go,
My zeal for you shall still o'erflow;
To the empyrean then repair;
Without my love I'd not go there.'
The Shepherdess Of The Arno
’Tis no wild and wond’rous legend, but a simple pious tale
Of a gentle shepherd maiden, dwelling in Italian vale,
Near where Arno’s glittering waters like the sunbeams flash and play
As they mirror back the vineyards through which they take their way.
She was in the rosy dawning of girlhood fair and bright,
And, like morning’s smiles and blushes, was she lovely to the sight;
Soft cheeks like sea-shells tinted and radiant hazel eyes;
But on changing earthly lover were not lavished smiles or sighs.
Still, that gentle heart was swelling with a love unbounded, true,
Such as worldly breast, earth harden’d, passion-wearied, never knew;
And each day she sought the chapel of Our Lady in the dell,
There to seek an hour’s communing with the Friend she loved so well.
Often, too, she brought a garland of wild flowers, fragrant, fair,
Which she culled whilst onward leading her flock with patient care;
The diamond dew-drops clinging to every petal sweet,—
For the mystic Rose of Heaven was it not a tribute meet?
The white statue of the Virgin boasted neither crown nor gem;
On its head she placed her chaplet instead of diadem,
Murm’ring, “O, my gentle Mother, would that it were in my power
To give Thee pearl or diamond instead of simple flower!”
But for earth she was too winsome, that fair child of faith and love,
One of those whom God culls early for His gardens bright above;
And the hand of sickness touched her till she faded day by day,
And to Our Lady’s chapel she came no more to pray.
One evening, in the valley, after journeying many a mile,
Two pious men in holy garb lay down to rest a while,
And in sleep to both a vision of most wond’rous beauty came,
Such as only visit souls which burn with heav’nly love’s pure flame.
Amid clouds of golden brightness they saw to earth float down
A band of fair young virgins, wearing each a glittering crown;
And surpassing them in beauty, as the day outshines the night,
Was high Heaven’s regal Mistress—Our Lady, fair and bright.
Then the pious brothers knew at once that she was on her way
To see a dying maiden, and her love through life repay;
And when, from slumber waking, they told their vision true,
They said: “Let us go visit this child of Mary, too!”
High instinct lent by Heaven guided on their feet aright,
And in silence grave they journeyed till a cottage came in sight;
’Neath its humble porch they entered, with bow’d and reverent head,
And found themselves in presence of the peaceful, holy dead.
Oh! most fair the sight! No maiden with bridal wreath on brow
Ever looked one half so lovely as the one they gazed on now;
As a lily, fair and spotless, bright and pure each feature shone,
Bearing impress of that Heaven to which Mary’s child had gone.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The singing in god's acre
Out yonder in the moonlight, wherein God's Acre lies,
Go angels walking to and fro, singing their lullabies.
Their radiant wings are folded, and their eyes are bended low,
As they sing among the beds whereon the flowers delight to grow,--
"Sleep, oh, sleep!
The Shepherd guardeth His sheep.
Fast speedeth the night away,
Soon cometh the glorious day;
Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,
Sleep, oh, sleep!"
The flowers within God's Acre see that fair and wondrous sight,
And hear the angels singing to the sleepers through the night;
And, lo! throughout the hours of day those gentle flowers prolong
The music of the angels in that tender slumber-song,--
"Sleep, oh, sleep!
The Shepherd loveth His sheep.
He that guardeth His flock the best
Hath folded them to His loving breast;
So sleep ye now, and take your rest,--
Sleep, oh, sleep!"
From angel and from flower the years have learned that soothing song,
And with its heavenly music speed the days and nights along;
So through all time, whose flight the Shepherd's vigils glorify,
God's Acre slumbereth in the grace of that sweet lullaby,--
"Sleep, oh, sleep!
The Shepherd loveth His sheep.
Fast speedeth the night away,
Soon cometh the glorious day;
Sleep, weary ones, while ye may,--
Sleep, oh, sleep!"
poem by Eugene Field
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Edwin and Angela, A Ballad
'Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.
'For here, forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds immeasurably spread,
Seem length'ning as I go.'
'Forbear, my son,' the hermit cries,
'To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
'Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still;
And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.
'Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch, and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.
'No flocks that range the valley free
To slaughter I condemn:
Taught by that power that pities me,
I learn to pity them.
'But from the mountain's grassy side
A guiltless feast I bring;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.
'Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forgo;
All earth-born cares are wrong:
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.'
Soft as the dew from heav'n descends,
His gentle accents fell:
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Requir'd a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Receiv'd the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest:
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily press'd, and smil'd;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguil'd.
Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth;
The crackling fag got flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the hermit spied,
With answ'ring care oppress'd;
'And whence, unhappy youth,' he cried,
'The sorrows of thy breast?
'From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove;
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?
'Alas! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling, and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.
'And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep?
'And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair one's jest:
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.
'For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex,' he said:
But, while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.
Surpris'd, he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms:
The lovely stranger stands confess'd
A maid in all her charms.
'And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn,' she cried;
'Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where heaven and you reside.
'But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray;
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.
'My father liv'd beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he;
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,
He had but only me.
'To win me from his tender arms
Unnumber'd suitors came;
Who prais'd me for imputed charms,
And felt or feign'd a flame.
Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove:
Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd,
But never talk'd of love.
'In humble, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.
'And when beside me in the dale
He caroll'd lays of love;
His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
And music to the grove.
'The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refin'd,
Could nought of purity display,
To emulate his mind.
'The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his, but woe to me!
Their constancy was mine.
'For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain:
And while his passion touch'd my heart,
I triumph'd in his pain.
'Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died.
'But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.
'And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I.'
'Forbid it, heaven!' the hermit cried,
And clasp'd her to his breast:
The wondering fair one turn'd to chide,
'Twas Edwin's self that prest.
'Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restor'd to love and thee.
'Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And ev'ry care resign;
And shall we never, never part,
My life - my all that's mine?
'No, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true;
The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin's too.'
poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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Elegy XXIII. Reflections Suggested By His Situation
Born near the scene for Kenelm's fate renown'd,
I take my plaintive reed, and range the grove,
And raise my lay, and bid the rocks resound
The savage force of empire, and of love.
Fast by the centre of yon various wild,
Where spreading oaks embower a Gothic fane,
Kendria's arts a brother's youth beguiled;
There nature urged her tenderest pleas in vain.
Soft o'er his birth, and o'er his infant hours,
The ambitious maid could every care employ;
Then with assiduous fondness cropt the flowers,
To deck the cradle of the princely boy.
But soon the bosom's pleasing calm is flown;
Love fires her breast; the sultry passions rise;
A favour'd lover seeks the Mercian throne,
And views her Kenelm with a rival's eyes.
How kind were Fortune! ah, how just were Fate!
Would Fate or Fortune Mercia's heir remove!
How sweet to revel on the couch of state!
To crown at once her lover and her love!
See, garnish'd for the chase, the fraudful maid
To these lone hills direct his devious way;
The youth, all prone, the sister-guide obey'd;
Ill-fated youth! himself the destined prey!
But now, nor shaggy hill, nor pathless plain,
Forms the lone refuge of the sylvan game,
Since Lyttleton has crown'd the sweet domain
With softer pleasures, and with fairer fame.
Where the rough bowman urged his headlong steed,
Immortal bards, a polish'd race, retire;
And where hoarse scream'd the strepent horn, succeed
The melting graces of no vulgar lyre.
See Thomson, loitering near some limpid well,
For Britain's friend the verdant wreath prepare!
Or, studious of revolving seasons, tell
How peerless Lucia made all seasons fair!
See -- from civic garlands fly,
And in those groves indulge his tuneful vein!
Or from yon summit, with a guardian's eye,
Observe how Freedom's hand attires the plain!
Here Pope!-ah! never must that towering mind
To his loved haunts, or dearer friend return!
What art, what friendships! oh, what fame resign'd
-In yonder glade I trace his mournful urn.
Where is the breast can rage or hate retain,
And these glad streams and smiling lawns behold?
Where is the breast can hear the woodland strain,
And think fair Freedom well exchanged for gold?
Through these soft shades delighted let me stray,
While o'er my head forgotten suns descend!
Through these dear valleys bend my casual way,
Till setting life a total shade extend!
Here, far from courts, and void of pompous cares,
I'll muse how much I owe mine humbler fate,
Or shrink to find how much Ambition dares,
To shine in anguish, and to grieve in state!
Canst thou, O Sun! that spotless throne disclose,
Where her bold arm has left no sanguine stain?
Where, show me where, the lineal sceptre glows,
Pure as the simple crook that rules the plain!
Tremendous pomp! where hate, distrust, and fear,
In kindred bosoms solve the social tie;
There not the parent's smile is half sincere,
Nor void of art the consort's melting eye.
There, with the friendly wish, the kindly flame,
No face is brighten'd, and no bosoms beat;
Youth, manhood, age, avow one sordid aim,
And even the beardless lip essays deceit.
There coward Rumours walk their murderous round;
The glance, that more than rural blame instils;
Whispers that, tinged with friendship, doubly wound;
Pity that injures, and concern that kills.
There anger whets, but love can ne'er engage;
Caressing brothers part but to revile;
There all men smile, and Prudence warns the wise
To dread the fatal stroke of all that smile.
There all are rivals! sister, son, and sire,
With horrid purpose hug destructive arms;
There soft-eyed maids in murderous plots conspire,
And scorn the gentler mischief of their charms.
Let servile minds one endless watch endure;
Day, night, nor hour, their anxious guard resign;
But lay me, Fate! on flowery banks secure,
Though my whole soul be, like my limbs, supine.
Yes; may my tongue disdain a vassal's care;
My lyre resound no prostituted lay;
More warm to merit, more elate to wear
The cap of Freedom than the crown of bay.
Soothed by the murmurs of my pebbled flood,
I wish it not o'er golden sands to flow;
Cheer'd by the verdure of my spiral wood,
I scorn the quarry, where no shrub can grow.
No midnight pangs the shepherd's peace pursue;
His tongue, his hand, attempts no secret wound;
He sings his Delia, and, if she be true,
His love at once, and his ambition's crown'd.
poem by William Shenstone
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Contentment
If those who live in shepherd's bower,
Press not the rich and stately bed;
The new-mown hay and breathing flower
A softer couch beneath them spread.
If those who sit at shepherd's board,
Soothe not their taste by wanton art;
They take what Nature's gifts afford,
And take it with a cheerful heart.
If those who drain the shepherd's bowl,
No high and sparkling wines can boast;
With wholesome cups they cheer the soul,
And crown them with the village toast.
If those who join in shepherd's sport,
Gay dancing on the daisied ground,
Have not the splendour of a court;
Yet love adorns the merry round.
poem by James Thomson
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