234
Poems on
But not the Whispers of the waving Trees,
Nor murm'ring Waters, curling to the Breeze,
Not sweet soft Slumbers in the shady Bow'rs,
When thou art absent whom my Soul adores!
Come, let us seek some flow'ry, fragrant Bed!
Come, on thy Bosom rest my love-sick Head!
Come, drive thy Flocks beneath the shady Hills,
Or softly slumber by the murmuring Rills!
Ah no! he flies! that dear enchanting He!
Whose Beauty steals my very Self from Me!
Yet wert thou wont the Garland to prepare,
To crown with fragrant Wreaths thy Cælia's Hair:
When to the Lyre she tun'd the vocal Lays,
Thy Tongue would flatter, and thine Eyes speak praise:
And when smooth-gliding in the Dance she mov'd,
Ask thy false Bosom if it never lov'd?
Nor murm'ring Waters, curling to the Breeze,
Not sweet soft Slumbers in the shady Bow'rs,
When thou art absent whom my Soul adores!
Come, let us seek some flow'ry, fragrant Bed!
Come, on thy Bosom rest my love-sick Head!
Come, drive thy Flocks beneath the shady Hills,
Or softly slumber by the murmuring Rills!
Ah no! he flies! that dear enchanting He!
Whose Beauty steals my very Self from Me!
Yet wert thou wont the Garland to prepare,
To crown with fragrant Wreaths thy Cælia's Hair:
When to the Lyre she tun'd the vocal Lays,
Thy Tongue would flatter, and thine Eyes speak praise:
And when smooth-gliding in the Dance she mov'd,
Ask thy false Bosom if it never lov'd?
And
