Phillis: a Pastoral Ballad

I Said,—on the banks by the stream, I've pip'd for the shepherds too long: Oh grant me, ye Muses, a theme, Where glory may brighten my song!

But PAN bade me stick to my strain, Nor lessons too lofty rehearse; Ambition befits not a swain, And PHILLIS loves pastoral verse.

The rose, tho' a beautiful red, Looks faded to PHILLIS'S bloom: And the breeze from the bean-flow'r bed To her breath's but a feeble perfume:

The dew-drop so limpid and gay, That loose on the violet lies, Tho' brighten'd by PHEBUS'S ray, Wants lustre, compar'd to her eyes.

A lilly I pluck'd in full pride, Its freshness with her's to compare; And foolishly thought (till I try'd) The flow'ret was equally fair.

How, CORYDON, could you mistake? Your fault be with sorrow confest, You said the white Swans on the lake For softness might rival her breast.

While thus I went on in her praise, My PHILLIS pass'd sportive along: Ye poets I covet no bays, She smil'd,—a reward for my song!

I find the God PAN'S in the right, No fame's like the fair ones applause! And CUPID must crown with delight The shepherd that sings in his cause.