Young Celia, in her tender years

Young Celia, in her tender years, Like th' rose-bud on its stalk, Fill'd with a virgin's modest fears, Stepp'd forth one eve to walk. She oft had heard of love's blind boy, And wish'd to find him out, Expecting soon to meet the joy Of which she'd been in doubt.

A pleasant shady grove she spy'd Where trembling aspens shook, Close to its slow'ry verge did glide A murm'ring limpid brook. Amintor singing there she found, She heard him talk of love; His crook lay by him on the ground, While thus he pray'd to Jove.

'Grant, mighty pow'r! that I may find Some ease within this breast; Grant that my Celia may be kind, And make Amintor blest; Grant her to know the force of love, And of her swain's desire; Grant that of me she may approve, And more I'll ne'er require.'