THE CHARMS of MELODY, SONG 87

What shepherd, or nymph of the grove, Can blame me for dropping a tear, Or lamenting aloud, as I rove, Since Phoebe no longer is here? My flocks, if at random they stray, What wonder, if she's from the plains? Her hand they wore wont to obey; She rul'd both the sheep and the swains.

Can I ever forget how we stray'd To the foot of yon neighbouring hill, To the bow'r we had built in the shade, Or the river that runs by the mill? There, sweet by my side as she lay, And heard the fond stories I told, How sweet was the thrush from the spray, Or the bleathing of lambs from the fold!

How oft would I spy out a charm, Which before had been hid from my view! And, while arm was enolded in arm, My lips to her lips how they grew! How long the sweet contest would last, Till the hours of retirement and rest, What pleasures and pain each had past, Who longest had lov'd, and who best.

No changes of place, or of time, I felt when my fair one was near; Alike was each weather and clime, Each season that chequer'd the year: In winter's rude lap did we freeze, Did we melt on the bosom of May— Each morn brought contentment and ease, If we rose up to work or to play.

She was all my fond wishes could ask; She had all the kind gods could impart; She was nature's most beautiful task, The despair, and the envy of art: There all that is worthy to prize, In all that was lovely was drest; For the graces were thron'd in her eyes, And the virtues all lodg'd in her breast.