Classic Poem

On a firm rock, enroll'd in ancient fame,
A city stands, and E DINBURGH its name;
Here came fair Phyllis from her native hills,
Whose beauty all the Scottish maids excels;
First of the rural nymphs in Venus' arms,
Nor yet had twenty summers crown'd her charms.
This lovely fair, her father's joy and pride,
Once, as she heedless pass'd, Urbanus ey'd.
Quick as the lightning darts from pole to pole,
An instant passion fir'd his am'rous soul;
With pray'rs and bribes he strove to win her mind,
But she, unmov'd, his tender suit declin'd.
Soon then the ruthless rocks he rov'd among,
And with his plaints Arcturus ' summit rung.
Echo too heard his tear-exciting strain,
And back resounded every groan again.
Echo, says he, alone laments my woe,
In hollow accents from the caves below.
My pipe sad warb'ling fills the groves around,
While she redoubles ev'ry plaintive sound.
Ah! wretched me! I mournfully exclaim;
Ah! wretched me! the vales repeat again.
Alas! alas! I sigh to ev'ry shade;
Alas! alas! returns the piteous Maid.
Ye sunny banks that once were my delight,
With precipices awful to the sight,
And vales that heard the bright-hair'd Phyllis sing,
What aid to me can all your beauties bring?
Phyllis is gone, with her my pleasures flew,
Gone, and has bid a killing long adieu.
My pipe and brittle reed I'll now destroy;
Phyllis is fled, the source of all my joy.
Not songs, nor flocks, can now my bliss recal,
Nor charming Muses, sweeter than them all.
The blue-ey'd Naiads now delight no more,
Nor frolic Pan that sports the mountains o'er;
His idle reed no cure for me can find,
Music enchants alone th' unruffl'd mind.
O cruel love! and cruel oxen too,
With savage rocks that never passion knew;
Those ills ye feel not that my soul infest,
Nor raves the furious tempest in your breast.
Such as when swells old Ætna's restless womb,
And bursts the caverns of Typhean gloom,
Fierce stones, and flames, and globes of fiery red,
It spouts tremendous from its burning bed,
And rolls the melted sulph'rous mass amain,
A flaming river down Sicilia's plain.
You are relentless too, my fleecy care,
Ye, nor your shepherds, pity my despair.
May frosts levere the cruel rocks divide,
And sudden whirlwinds tear the mountain's side;
May dark December reign with icy snow,
And Boreas ever round the aether blow;
Let the hard earth with cold perpetual freeze,
Nor ever feel the balmy-breathing breeze.
And you my flock, may madness seize your joy,
And dire distempers all your race destroy;
Or wolves innumerable your members tear,
And far disperse them through the fields and air;
May the curs'd plague your watchful swains consume,
Or heav'n's dread thunder speak their instant doom,
But why will fancy thus wild warfare wage,
And swell my sick-mind with an impious rage?
How have the rocks and air arous'd my ire?
Nor goats, nor sheep, nor shepherds did conspire
To pain my bosom, nor to fix my fate;
Why then shall harmless these deserve my hate?
Oh, I repent! my furious vows recant,
With all my wrathful execrating rant.
For if what anger's fierce vindictive arm,
Or madness' rash precipitate alarm,
Should bid, and in their order be obey'd,
How could I hope to see the beauteous Maid?
No! let the tender blandishments of all,
Unite their charms my Phyllis to recal.
Let the rough thorn with fragrant roses blow,
And the green earth with golden harvests glow;
Let the soft air the feather'd songsters fill
With wood-notes warbled from each dale and hill;
Let the glad herds their joyful lowings raise,
And blythsome flocks in foodful pastures graze;
Ye swains, for you may pleasures new appear,
And spring perpetual rule the circling year;
May winter's face with lasting green be crown'd,
And gentle suns enrich the fruitful ground.

Thus, as he sung, the herdsmen, flocks and swains,
Bedew'd their cheeks to hear his moving strains;
Cupid himself (the savage archer) moan'd,
And from its caves the hollow mountain groan'd.