Elegies

Thou to whose Eyes I bend, at whose command 
(Though low my voice, though artless be my hand)
I take the sprightly Reed and sing or play 
Careless of all the cens’ring World may say.

O fairest of thy Sex, be thou my Muse,
Deign on my Work thy Influence to diffuse,
So shall my Notes to future Times proclaim
Unbounded Love and ever-during Flame!

On a day, alack the day!
Love, whose month was ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind,
All unseen, 'gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
"Air", quoth he, "thy cheeks may blow;
Would that I might triumph so!
But, alas my hand is sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it sin in me
If I am forsworn for thee;
Thou for whom Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiope were,
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love."

Whilst from our Looks, fair Nymph you guess
The secret Passions of our Mind,
My heavy Eyes you say confess
A Heart to Love and Grief inclin’d.

There needs alas but little Art,
To have this fatal Secret known;
With the same Ease you threw the Dart
‘Tis certain you may shew the Wound.

How can I see you and not love,
While you as op’ning East are fair,
While cold as northern Blasts you prove
How can I love and not despair.

The wretch in double fetters bound
Your potent Mercy may release,
Soon if my Love but once were crown’d
Fair Isabel my Grief would cease.

Could he whom my dissembled Rigour grieves,
But know what Torment to my Soul it gives,
He’d find how fondly I’d return his Flame,
And want myself the Pity he would claim.

Unhappy part’ner of my killing Pain,
Think what I feel the Moment you complain.
Each Sigh you utter wounds my tend’rest Part,
So much my Words misrepresent my Heart.

When from your Eyes the falling Drops distil,
My vital Blood in ev’ry Tear you spill;
And all these mournful Agonies I hear,
Are but Echoes of my own Despair.

In a Vale clos'd with Woodland, where Grottoes abound,
Where Rivulets murmur and Echoes are found,
I vowed to the Muses my Time and my Care
Since neither could win me the Smiles of my Fair.

As Freedom inspir’d me I rang’d and I sung,
And Daphne’s dear Name never fell from my Tongue.
But if a smooth Accent delighted my Ear,
I should wish unawares that my Daphne might hear.

With fairest Ideas my Bosom I stor’d,
To drive from my Heart the fair Nymph I adored,
But the more I with Study my Fancy refin’d
The deeper Impression she made in my Mind.

Ah! whilst I the Beauties of Nature pursue,
I still must my Daphne’s fair Image renew:
The Graces have chosen with Daphne to rove
And the Muses are all in Alliance with Love.

Ye Woods and ye Mountains unknown,
Beneath whose Shadows I stray,
To the Breast of my Charmer alone
These sighs bid sweet Echo convey,

Wherever he pensively leans
By Fountain on Hill or in Grove;
His heart will explain what she means
Who sings both from Sorrow and Love. 

More soft than the Nightingale’s Song,
O waft the sad Sound to his Ear,
And say though divided so long,
The Friend of his Bosom is near.

Then tell him what Years of Delight,
Then tell him what ages of Pain 
I felt while I liv’d in his Sight
I feel ‘till I see him again.

Thou fairest Proof of Beauty's Pow'r,
Dear Idol of my panting Heart;
Nature points this my fatal Hour!
And I have liv’d, and we must part.

Whilst now I take my last Adieu
Heave thou no Sigh nor shed no Tear,
Lest yet my half clos’d Eye may view 
On Earth an Object worth its Care.

From Jealousy’s tormenting Strife
Forever be thy Bosom freed
That nothing may disturb thy Life
Content I hasten to the dead.

Yet when some better fated Youth
Shall thee to am’rous Parley move,
Reflect on Moment on his Truth
Who dying thus persists to love.