To Sylvia

When at bleak WINTER'S stern command, Fair nature's blooming beauties fade, And the sad groves all leafless stand, And wither'd is each pleasing shade;

No nightingale, or linnet gay, Is heard to wake the sprightly strain, No turtle pours her love-lorn lay, To sooth the soul of am'rous swain.

But when the jovial hours appear, That usher in the vernal breeze, When young-ey'd spring bedecks the year, And clothes in verdant robe the trees;

The feather'd choristers prepare To swell the gratulating song, While thro' the soft expanse of air, Wild Music sweetly floats along.

So when my Sylvia, lovely maid! Is by the touch of sickness pain'd, When on her cheeks the roses fade, And with pale white her lips are stain'd;

Oh then! my heart, oppress'd with woe And inward anguish, pines away; Nor from my lips does music flow, A stranger to the warbling lay—

But if the charming nymph renews The lively look, and health's soft bloom; Into my breast it does infuse New life, and dissipates my gloom.

Soon then I snatch the willing reed, And soon it sounds my Sylvia's name; My wond'ring flocks forget to feed, And listen while I tell my flame.

Again the smiling sparkling eye Beams lustre o'er her heav'nly face; Again the cheek of vermil dye Sheds, blushful round, its wonted grace—

Again her heaving breasts betray A passion of sublimer kind; There all the loves and graces play, And there th' unerring archer blind.

Again I clasp her round, in bliss, And press the yielding melting palm; Again I steal th' ambrosial kiss From lips distilling sweetest balm!