THE SYREN: PART II. PATHETIC SONGS, &c, SONG

When forc'd from dear Hebe to go, What anguish I felt at my heart! And I thought, but it might not be so; She was sorry to see me depart. She cast such a languishing view, My path I could scarcely discern: So sweetly she bade me adieu! I thought that she bade me return.

Methought, she might like to retire To the grove I had labour'd to rear; For, whatever I heard her admire, I hasted, and planted it there. Her voice such a pleasure conveys, So much I her accents adore; Let her speak and whatever she says, I'm sure still to love her the more.

And now, ere I haste to the plain, Come, shepherds, and talk of her ways; I could lay down my life for the swain That would sing me a song in her praise. While he sings, may the maids of the town: Come flocking, and listen awhile; Nor on him let Hebe once frown, But I cannot allow her to smile.

To see, when my charmer goes by, Some hermit peeps out of his cell, How he thinks of his youth with a sigh, How fondly he wishes her well! On him she may smile, if she please; 'Twill warm the cold bosom of age;— But cease, gentle, Hebe, Oh, cease! Such softness will ruin the sage.

I've stole from no flow'rets that glow, To paint the dear charms I approve; For what can a blossom bestow So sweet, so delightful as love? I sing in a rustical way, A shepherd, and one of the throng; Yet Hebe approves of my lay,— Go, poets, and envy my song.