« VorigeDoorgaan »
Known by the gods, as near he draws, They make him umpire of the cause.
O'er a low trunk his arm he laid, Where since his hours a dial made; Then, leaning, heard the nice debate, And thus pronounced the words of fate :
Since body from the parent Earth, And soul from Jove received a birth, Return they where they first began; But since their union makes the man, Till Jove and Earth shall part these two, To Care, who join'd them, man is due.
He said, and sprung with swift career To trace a circle for the year; Where ever since the seasons wheel, And tread on one another's heel.
'Tis well, said Jove; and, for consent,
And want afflict, and sickness break,
BY MATTHEW PRIOR.
THE pride of every grove I chose,
At morn the nymph voushsafed to place
And every nymph and shepherd said,
Undress'd at evening, when she found
That eye dropp'd sense, distinct and clear, As any Muse's tongue could speak, When, from its lids, a pearly tear
Stole trickling down her beauteous cheek, Dissembling what I knew too well,
My love, my life, said I, explain
She sigh'd; she smiled: and to the flowers
And that of beauty, are but one;
At dawn, poor Stella danced and sung;
Such as she is, who died to-day,
The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow.
A DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.
BY WILLIAM COLLINS.
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb,
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
But shepherd lads assemble here,
III. No wither'd witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew: The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew! IV.
The redbreast, oft at evening hours,
When howling winds, and beating rain,
The tender thoughts on thee shall dwell.
VI. Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed: Beloved, till life could charm no more; And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.
ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON.
BY WILLIAM COLLINS.
IN yonder grave a Druid lies,
Where slowly winds the stealing wave! The year's best sweets shall duteous rise, To deck its Poet's sylvan grave!
In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
Then maids and youths shall linger here,
To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore
To bid his gentle spirit rest!