Colin and Lucy

On the banks of that crystalline stream, Where Thames oft his current delays! And charms, more than poets can dream, In his Richmond's bright villa surveys.

Fair Lucy, of all the gay throng, The fairest that Britain has seen! Now drew every village along, From the day she first danc'd on the green.

Ah! boast not of beauty's fond power, For short is the triumph, ye fair! Not fleeter the bloom of each flower; And hope is but gilded despair.

His desire each swain now behold, By riches endeavours to prove! But Lucy, still cries, what is gold, Or wealth, when compar'd to his love?

No, Colin! together we'll wield Our sickles in summer's bright day; Together we'll leaze o'er the field; And smile all our labours away!

In winter I'll winnow the wheat As it falls, from your flail, on the ground: That flail will be music, as sweet When your voice in the labour is drown'd.

How oft would he speak of his bliss? How oft would he call her his maid? And Colin would seal, with a kiss, Every promise and vow which he laid.

But hark! o'er the grass-level land, The village bells sound on the plain! False Colin this morn gave his hand; And Lucy's fond tears are in vain!

Sad Lucy too soon heard the tale; Too soon the sad cause she was told: That his was a nymph of the vale, That he broke his fond promise for gold!

As she walkt by the margin so green, That adorns Thames' flowery side; How oft was she languishing seen? How oft would she gaze on the tide?

By the clear mirror then as she sate, That reflected herself and the mead; A-while she bewail'd her sad fate! And the green turf still pillow'd her head.

There! there! is it Lucy I see?— 'Tis Lucy the lost undone maid! Ah! no, 'tis some Lucy like me, Some hapless young virgin betray'd.

Like me, she has sorrow'd and wept; Like me, she has fondly believ'd; Like me, her true promise she kept, And like me too is justly deceiv'd!

I come, dear companion in grief! Gay scenes and fond pleasures adieu! I come, and we'll gather relief; From bosoms so chaste and so true.

Like you! I have mourn'd the long night; And wept out the day in despair! Like you! I have banish'd delight; And bosom'd a friend in my care.

Ye meadows, so lovely, farewell! Your velvet still Colin shall tread, All deaf to the sound of that knell, Which tolls for his Lucy when dead!

Your wish will too sure be obey'd! Nor Colin her loss shall bemoan: Soon, soon shall poor Lucy be laid, Where her heart shall be cold as your own.

Then, clasp'd in the arms of that fair, Whose wealth has been Lucy's sad fate! As together you breathe the free air, And a thousand dear pleasures relate:

If chance, o'er my turf as you tread, You dare to affect a fond sigh! The primrose will shrink its pale head; And the violet languish and die.

Scarce echo had gather'd the sound, But she plung'd from her grass-springing bed; The liquid stream parts to the ground; And the mirror clos'd over her head.

The swains of the village at eve Oft meet at the dark-spreading yew; There, wonder how man could deceive A bosom so chaste and so true!

With garlands of every flower, Which Lucy herself should have made, They raise up a short-living bower, And, sighing! cry, peace to her shade!

Then, hand lock'd in hand, as they move The green-platting hilloc around; They talk of sad Lucy, and love! And freshen with tears the fair ground.

Nay! wish they had never been born, Or liv'd the sad moment to view! When a Colin could thus be forsworn; And a Lucy could still be so true!