Cymon and Iphigenia—a Cantata

Near a thick grove, whose deep embow'ring shade Seem'd most for love and contemplation made, A chrystal stream with gentle murmurs flows, Whose flow'ry banks are form'd for soft repose: Thither retir'd from Phoebus' sultry ray, And lull'd in sleep, fair Iphigenia lay. Cymon, a clown, who never dreamt of love, By chance was stumping to the neighb'ring grove; He trudg'd along, unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought: But when he first beheld the sleeping maid, He gap'd—he star'd—her lovely form survey'd; And while with artless voice he sweetly sung, Beauty and nature thus inform'd his tongue.

The stream that glides in murmurs by, Whose glassy bosom shows the sky, Complete the rural scene, Complete the rural scene; But in thy bosom, charming maid, All heav'n itself is sure display'd, Too lovely Iphigene, Too lovely Iphigene.

She wakes, and starts—poor Cymon trembling stands; Down falls the stass from his unnerved hands: Bright excellence, said he, dispel all sear; Where honor's oresent, sure no danger's near. Half-raised, with gentle accent she replies, Oh Cymon! if 'tis you, I need not rise; Thy honest heart no wrong can entertain; Pursue thy way, and let me sleep again. The clown transported was not silent long, But thus with ecstacy pursu'd his song:

The jetty locks, that careless break In wanton ringlets, down thy neck; Thy love-inspiring mien, Thy love-inspiring mien; Thy swelling bosom, skin of snow, And taper shape, enchant me so, I die for Iphigine, I die for Iphigine.

Amaz'd, she listens, nor can trace from whence The sormer clod is thus inspir'd with sense: She gazes—finds him comely, tall and strait, And thinks the might improve his awk'ard gaite; Bids him be secret, and next day attend, At the same hour, to meet his faithful friend. Thus mighty love cou'd teach a clown to plead; And nature's language surest will succeed.

Love's a pure, a sacred, sire, Kindling gentle, chaste desire; Love can rage itself control, And elevate, and elevate the human soul: Depriv'd of that, our wretched state Had made our lives of too long date; But blest with beauty and with love, We taste what angels do above, What angels do above.