A Pastoral Song

The shepherd, of fortune possest, May scorn, if he please, my poor cot, May think in his wealth to be blest, But I never will envy his lot: The pleasures, which riches impart, Are fleeting, and feeble, when known; They never give peace to the heart, It scorns to be happy alone.

That shepherd true happiness knows, Whose bosom by beauty is mov'd, Who tastes the pure pleasure that flows, From loving and being belov'd. 'Tis a joy of angelical birth, And when to poor mortals 'tis giv'n, It chears their abode upon earth, And sweetens their journey to heav'n,

Now briskly my spirits would move! What peace in this bosom would reign! Were I blest with the nymph that I love, Sweet Emma, the pride of the plain! Ye shepherds, she's fair as the light! The critic no blemish can find; And all the soft virtues unite, And glow in her innocent mind,

Her accents are fitted to please, Her manners engagingly free; Her temper is ever at ease, And calm as an angel's can be. Her presence all sorrow removes, She enraptures the wit and the clown: Her heart is as mild as the dove's, Her hand is as soft as its down.

Yon lily, which graces the field, And throws its perfume to the gale, In fairness and fragrance must yield To Emma, the pride of the vale. She's pleasant as yonder cool rill To trav'llers who faint on the way; She's sweet, as the rose on the hill, When it opens its bosom to day.

I ask not for wealth or for pow'r; Kind heaven! I these can resign; But hasten, O hasten the hour, When Emma shall deign to be mine. O teach her to pity the pain Of a heart, that, if slighted, must break; O teach her to love the fond swain, Who would lay down his life for her sake.

Though poor, I will never repine, Content that my Emma is true; I'll press her dear bosom to mine, And think myself rich as Peru. With her I will stray thro' the grove, And fondly I'll pour out my soul, Indulge my effusions of love, And find myself blest to the full.

And oft in the cool of the day, We'll ramble to hear the sweet song, That vibrates so soft from each spray, Where Codorus rolls gently along. With flowers I'll crown her dear hair. Then gaze on her beauties; and cry, What nymph can with Emma compare, What shepherd so happy as I!

Thus cheerful the moments shall roll, Of all my fond wishes possest; And peace shall descend on my soul, And make it her favourite rest: Contentment my life shall prolong, All trouble and sorrow forgot; And Time, as he hurries along, Shall smile upon Corydon's cot.