A Poem.

M Y muse of Thirsis sings, and of the shade,
Where he, poor shepherd, with his Daphne stray'd:
On D UNSMORE waste, there stands a shady grove,
The sweet recess of solitude and love;
Hazles on this, on that side elms are seen,
To shade the verdant path that leads between.
A rose, less lovely than young Thirsis gay,
Adorns the sprig that bends across the way;
The way that does with various flow'rs abound,
The gentle shepherd cast his eyes around;
He sought a flower with Daphne to compare,
And thought the drooping lily seem'd less fair:
A flame as pure as that fair sacred light,
That shines between the hazle boughs at night,
Inspires the am'rous Thirsis' tender breast,
Which, by that light, has often been confess'd:
Soft was his speech, and languishing his eye,
When he approach'd his Daphne with a sigh;
No dark deceit did to his heart belong,
And flatt'ry was as foreign to his tongue;
" I love, says he, (and took her by the hand)
" And my poor wounded heart's at your command;
" For you I'm doom'd in love's fierce flames to burn;
" Be kind, my dear, and love me in reurn. "
Thus said the swain, and paus'd a little while;
The fair one's answer was a silent smile:
To see her smile, he smil'd amidst his pain,
And thus pursu'd his gentle suit again.
" How long must I be toss'd 'twixt hope and fear,
" And tell my pain to your regardless ear?
" No more in silence hear me thus complain,
" Nor force those flatt'ring smiles, to hide disdain;
" But say you love, and end my anxious care,
" Or frown, and let me die in sad despair. "
To hear him thus his ardent flame express,
Poor swain! she pity'd him; what could she less?
Her love, perhaps, at length may be attain'd,
By the dear swain that has her pity gain'd.