Classic Poem

Her sheep had in clusters crept close by the grove,
To hide from the rigours of day;
And Phillis herself, in a woodbine alcove,
Among the fresh violets lay:
A youngling, it seems had been stole from its dam,
('Twixt Cupid and Hymen a plot)
That Corydon might, as he search'd for his lamb,
Arrive at this critical spot.

As through the gay hedge for his lambkin he peeps,
He saw the sweet maid with surprise;
“Ye gods! if so killing,” he cry'd, “when she sleeps,
I'm lost when she opens her eyes!
To tarry much longer would hazard my heart,
I'll onwards, my lambkin to trace:”—
In vain honest Corydon strove to depart,
For love had him nail'd to the place.

“Hush, hush'd be these birds, what a bawling they keep!”
He cry'd, “you're too loud on the spray,
Don't you see, foolish lark, that the charmer's asleep;
You'll wake her as sure as 'tis day:
How dare that fond butterfly touch the sweet maid!
Her cheek he mistakes for the rose;
I'd pat him to death, if I was not afraid
My boldness would break her repose.”

Young Phillis look'd up with a languishing smile,
“Kind shepherd,” she said, “you mistake;
I laid myself down just to rest me a while,
But trust me, have still been awake:”
The shepherd took courage, advanc'd with a bow,
He plac'd himself close by her side,
And manag'd the matter I cannot tell how,
But yesterday made her his bride.