Classic Poem

Scene — A Valley

Season — Autumn ; Time — E VENING .

T HE matron, Autumn, held her sober reign
O'er fading foliage on the russet plain:
Mild Evening came; the moon began to rise,
And spread pale lustre o'er unclouded skies.
'Twas silence all — save, where along the road
The slow wain grating bore its cumbrous load;
Save, where broad rivers roll'd their waves away,
And screaming herons sought their watry prey —
When hapless Damon, in Algorno's vale,
Pour'd his soft sorrows on the passing gale:
" That grace of shape, that elegance of air,
That blooming face so exquisitely fair;
That eye of brightness bright as morning's ray,
That smile of softness soft as closing day,
Which bound my soul to thee; all, all are fled —
All lost in dreary mansions of the dead!
Ev'n him, whom distance from his love divides,
Toil'd on scorch'd sands, or tost on rolling tides,
Kind Hope still cheers, still paints, to soothe his pain
The happy moment when they meet again.
Far worse my lot! of hope bereft, I mourn! —
The parted spirit never can return!"
Thus Damon spoke, as in the cypress gloom
He hung-lamenting o'er his Delia's tomb.
In the still valley where they wander'd near,
Two gentle Shepherds chanc'd his voice to hear
Lycoron's head Time's hand had silver'd o'er,
And Milo's cheek youth's rosy blushes bore.
" How mournful, (said Lycoron) flows that strain
It brings past miseries to my mind again.
When the blithe Village, on the vernal green,
Sees its fair daughters in the dance convene;
And Youth's light step in search of Pleasure stray
And his fond eyes on Beauty fix their gaze;
Shouldst thou then, lingering midst the lovely train,
Wish some young Charmer's easy heart to gain,
Mark well, that Reason Love's pursuit approve,
Ere thy soft arts her tender passions move:
Else, though thy thoughts in Summer-regions rang
Calm sunny climes that seem to fear no change;
Rude Winter's rage will soon the scene deform,
Dark with thick cloud, and rough with battering storm!
When parents interdict, and friends dissuade;
The prudent censure, and the proud upbraid;
Think! all their efforts then shalt thou disdain,
Thy faith, thy constancy, unmov'd, maintain?
To Isca's fields, me once Ill-fortune led;
In Isca's fields, her flocks Zelinda fed:
There oft, when Evening, on the silent plain,
Commenc'd with sweet serenity her reign,
Along green groves, or down the winding dales,
The Fair-one listen'd to my tender tales;
Then when her mind, or doubt or fear distress'd,
And doubt or fear her anxious eyes express'd;
" O no! (said I) let oxen quit the mead,
With climbing goats on craggy cliffs to feed;
Before the hare the hound affrighted fly,
And larks pursue the falcon through the sky;
Streams cease to flow, and winds to stir the lake,
If I, unfaithful, ever thee forsake! —
What my tongue utter'd then, my heart believ'd:
O wretched heart, self-flatter'd and deceiv'd!
Fell Slander's arts the Virgin's fame accus'd;
And whom my love had chose, my pride refus'd.
For me, that cheek did tears of grief distain?
To me, that voice in anguish plead in vain?
What fiend relentless then my soul possess'd?
Oblivion hide! for ever hide the rest!
Too well her innocence and truth were prov'd;
Too late my pity and my justice mov'd!"
He ceas'd, with groans that more than words express'd;
And smote in agony his aged breast.
His friend replied not; but, with soothing strains
Of solemn music, sought to ease his pains:
Soft flow'd the notes, as gales that waft perfume
From cowslip meads, or linden boughs in bloom.
Peace o'er their minds a calm composure cast;
And slowly down the shadowy vale in pensive mood they pass'd.