Classic Poem

CELADON.

O H ! Celadon, did not the hours
Appear to glide rapid away,
When with me 'mid fresh blossoming flowers
You carold the beauties of May.
When spring, with its infantine green,
Lightly ting'd the tall elms of the grove;
Ah! Celadon, sweet was the scene,
Its beauty was heighten'd by love.

Of all you then sang, not a strain
But I still can distinctly repeat;
Ah! youth, but reproaches are vain,
Can you say your behaviour is meet?
Is it just to abandon with scorn
The heart you so hardly subdu'd,
And to leave the poor virgin forlorn,
Whom late you so fervently woo'd?

When you gave me the eglantine wreath,
You embellished the gift with your praise;
You only design'd to deceive,
Yet you spake to the heart in your lays.
My beauty was then all your theme,
In beauty I never took pride;
I thought it procur'd your esteem,
I knew not its value beside.

You promis'd your passion should last
Till by death's icy rigour represt,
Yet now all your ardour is past,
And you live at that passion to jest.
Was the fetter that bound you too weak;
Oh! why is my Celadon strange?
'Till sorrow had faded my cheek,
I saw in the fountain no change.

***Can you say my behaviour was light,
Was it easy my favour to gain,
When I promis'd your love to requite,
Could others attention obtain?
To a test all my words may be brought,
Let my life by suspicion be try'd;
You, Celadon, knew every thought,
I had none that I studied to hide.

You sure must remember the day
You wounded your hand with the hook;
Again how I fainted away
When you rescu'd my lamb from the brook.
Oh! how my heart flutters; e'en yet
I think of your danger with tears,
Yet Celadon strives to forget,
At once, both my love and my fears,

Fond fool! do I utter my grief
To the man from whose falsehood it sprung;
Shall the nest plunder'd dove seek relief
From the stripling that ravished her young?
Yet shepherds are free from deceit,
Their manners are simple and plain;
From all kind compassion I meet,
And all thy injustice disdain.

My mother has often times read,
While I reel'd off my spindle at night,
That lions and tygers have bled;
All vanquish'd by shepherds in fight.
'Tis right for such deeds to exult,
For virtue and courage they prove;
But, oh! it is base to insult
The girl you have injur'd in love.

Your bride she is lovely, I fear,
I've heard she is richer than me;
The lot of the poor is severe,
Ev'n lovers from poverty flee.
Yet my father, I've often been told,
Had once a large portion of sheep,
But the winter flood broke down his fold,
And buried them all in the deep.

My mother, alas! she is dead;
My sorrow she now cannot feel;
To earn her a morsel of bread
I work'd very hard at my wheel,
She said, for my duty and love,
A blessing I surely should know;
I trust I shall find it above,
For grief is my portion below.

I have heard our good curate oft tell
Many things about Angels of light,
That in virtue and truth they excel;
Such Celadon seem'd in my sight.
Oh! break thou too credulous heart,
I am sick of thy passionate strife;
The victim of Celadon's art
Is weary of him and of life.

Yet the curses of vengeance to frame
Is a sin that I dare not commit;
This heart, which still throbs at his name,
Will never the outrage permit.
My wrongs, oh! they all are forgiven,
And my last dying wish it shall be;
May he never be question'd by heaven,
For vows he has broken to me.

Go fetch home thy new wedded fair,
Thy joys I will never molest;
I have found out a cure for despair;
My heart shall be quickly at rest.
No more shall the night's peaceful air
Be vex'd by my clamorous breath
I have found out a cure for despair,
'Tis silence — the silence of death.