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While thus she sung, upon a tree
within the adjacent wood,
To hear her mournful melody,
a Stork attentive stood.
From whence thus to the Swan she spoke
What means this song of joy?
Is it, fond fool, so kind a stroke
that does thy life destroy?
Turn back, deluded bird, and try
to keep thy fleeting breath:
It is a dismal thing to die,
and pleasure ends in death.
Base Stork, the Swain reply'd, give o’er,
thy arguments arc vain;
If after death we are no more,
yet we are free from pain.
But there are soft Elysian shades,
and bow’rs of kind repose,
Where never any storm invades,
nor tempest ever blows.
There in cool streams, and shady woods.
I’ll sport the time away;
Or, swimming down the chrystal floods,
among young Halcons play.
Then pr’ythee cease, or tell me why
I have such cause to grieve?
Since ‘tis a happiness to die,
and 'tis a pain to live.
Printed by J. and M. Robertson, Saltmarket, ⟨1799⟩
