THE SHEPHERD'S DESPAIR.

MY Lucy was charming and fair,
Love shot all his shafts from her eyes:
So sweet, so commanding her air,
It could soften at once and surprise.
Such pity, such tenderness, play'd,
Serene in her face and her mind!
But the vision of hope is decay'd,
Though the shadows still linger behind.

My flute was melodious and soft,
The joy of the pastoral throng;
The linnet would join from aloft,
And Lucy embolden the song:

My cheeks which pale sorrow will fade,
Were the red rose and lily combin'd.
But the vision of hope is decay'd,
Though its shadows still linger behind.

Ab, fair as the blossoms of spring,
Ah! how could that bosom be cold?
More love lay in Corydon's ring,
More wealth than in Floridel's gold.

The dotard now wooes my dear maid,
Now feels every rapture refin'd-
Yes the vision of hope's quite decay'd,
Though the shadows still linger behind.

No more to my flocks will I sing,
No more tend the calls of the fold,
No more shall the glad valleys ring,
Since affection is barter'd for gold.
I will fly with Despair to the shade,
I will die on some rude rock reclin'd;
For the vision of hope is decay'd,
Though the shadows still linger behind.

ELEGIAC STANZAS TO FIDELE,

IN CYMBELINE.

FEAR no more the scorching heat;
Fear no more the driving show'r :
Life has tir'd thy pilgrim feet;
Death has nipt thy budding flow'r.

Pains nor aches shall vex thy form,
Nor penury with gripe of steel;
Frozen death's benumbing storm,
Has marr'd that breast that wont to feel.

Yet shall fond Friendship, cherub mild, With balmy wing defend thy tomb; And hov'ring love, a weeping child, Rove sadly through the sacred gloom.

Fond widows, of their loves bereav'd,
Shall o'er the fresh sod pensive bend;
And village maids untimely grieved,
Thy sweetly-silent scene attend.

Full many a prayer shall o'er thy clay,
Devoutly breathe from artless lip;
Full many a moan, at close of day,
From plaintive bosom heaving deep.
Oft as the shepherd passes by,

Shal! sorrow catch each mourning wind;
And innocence, with incense sigh,

Cast a long ling'ring look behind.

Here shall no dismal exil'd fay,
In vap'rish shroud terrific drest,
Affright thy votive train away,
And scare the tender hermit's breast.

But gleams of sunshine gild the place,
When light sinks fainting in the west;
And morning's smilings purple grace
With orient dawn thy peaceful rest.

On the green turf of twinkling dew,
That holds the loveliest frame below,
Shall Spring assort her harebells blue,
And fling her gems of living snow.
The lark shall here begin his song
Amid the awful stillness round,
And cooing turtles frequent throng,

The branch that marks the secret ground

Meanwhile thy poet's* floating shade,
Shall from the womb of night emerge,
Review thy rites most duly pay'd,
And sing his dear Fidele's dirge.

Fear no more the scorching heat;
Fear no more the driving show'r :
Life has tir'd thy pilgrim feet,
Death has nipt thy budding flow'r.

⚫ Collins.