142
Translations, &c.
Heav'ns! with thy balmy lips my lips are prest;
And then! ah, then!—I blush to write the rest.
Thus in my dreams the bright ideas play, 135
And gild the glowing scenes of fancy gay:
With life alone my ling'ring love must end;
On thee my love, my life, my all, depend.
But at the dawning day my pleasures fleet,
And I (too soon!) perceive the dear deceit: 140
In caves and groves I seek to calm my grief;
The caves and groves afford me no relief.
Frantic I rove, disorder'd with despair,
And to the winds unbind my scatter'd hair.
I find the shades which to our joys were kind, 145
But my false Phaon there no more I find:
With him the caves were cool, the grove was green,
But now his absence withers all the scene:
There weeping, I the grassy couch survey,
Where side by side we once together lay: 150
I fall where thy forsaken print appears,
And the kind turf imbibes my flowing tears.
The birds and trees to grief assistance bring,
These drop their leaves, and they forbear to sing:
Poor Philomel, of all the quire, alone 155
For mangled Itys warbles out her moan;
Her moan for him trills sweetly thro' the grove,
While Sappho sings of ill-requited love.
To this dear solitude the Naiads bring
Their fruitful urns, to form a silver spring: 160
And then! ah, then!—I blush to write the rest.
Thus in my dreams the bright ideas play, 135
And gild the glowing scenes of fancy gay:
With life alone my ling'ring love must end;
On thee my love, my life, my all, depend.
But at the dawning day my pleasures fleet,
And I (too soon!) perceive the dear deceit: 140
In caves and groves I seek to calm my grief;
The caves and groves afford me no relief.
Frantic I rove, disorder'd with despair,
And to the winds unbind my scatter'd hair.
I find the shades which to our joys were kind, 145
But my false Phaon there no more I find:
With him the caves were cool, the grove was green,
But now his absence withers all the scene:
There weeping, I the grassy couch survey,
Where side by side we once together lay: 150
I fall where thy forsaken print appears,
And the kind turf imbibes my flowing tears.
The birds and trees to grief assistance bring,
These drop their leaves, and they forbear to sing:
Poor Philomel, of all the quire, alone 155
For mangled Itys warbles out her moan;
Her moan for him trills sweetly thro' the grove,
While Sappho sings of ill-requited love.
To this dear solitude the Naiads bring
Their fruitful urns, to form a silver spring: 160
