Tell me, ye brooks, where can my darling hide? O! lead me to him, as ye gently glide. In yon dark bower does he soft-slumb'ring lay, And there the tribute to your murmurs pay? In vain, to find him I implore your aid, And tell my longings to your bending shade; His deep-hid covert you must ne'er disclose, Whence now he spies me, and derides my woes. When night draws off, from me the charmer flies; In vain I call him, still he mocks my sighs; He flies! At random I these words employ: My soul's delight may be a wingless boy. Fruitless for him your mossy banks I trace, And sweetly tortured, rove from place to place. In grotts alone, he's kind as Love can be. Thus, what I doat on, I must never see.
- by Anonymous / Unidentified Author [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 16
Word count: 136