Tixall Poetry.
187
Heaven and nature smiling were,
And nothing sad but I.
And nothing sad but I.
Each rosie field its odour spread,
All fragrant was the shore,
Each water god rose from his bed,
And sigh'd, and curst his power:
The curling waves rais'd up their head,
As proud of what they bore.
All fragrant was the shore,
Each water god rose from his bed,
And sigh'd, and curst his power:
The curling waves rais'd up their head,
As proud of what they bore.
Glide on, ye waters, beare these lines,
And tel her I'm distrest;
Beare all my sighs, ye cooler winds,
And waft them to her breast:
Tel her, if ere she proves unkind,
I never shall have rest.
And tel her I'm distrest;
Beare all my sighs, ye cooler winds,
And waft them to her breast:
Tel her, if ere she proves unkind,
I never shall have rest.
