A PASTORAL .
'T WAS in that season of the year,
?When Sol in Cancer reigns,
When his bright beams obsequious cheer,
?The hoary northern plains.
When T HYRIS , deep opprest with woe,
?Sought the sequester'd shade,
Fell sorrow sat upon his brow,
?Which inward grief betray'd.
The bird of night, with dreary croak,
?With horror struck the ear,
The raven from the hollow oak,
?Mark'd melancholy near.
The wint'ry, hoarse, resounding main,
?Beat foaming on the beach,
Wild echo answer'd back the strain,
?With counterfeited speech.
The scene struck horror to the soul,
?The moon scarce deign'd her light,
The stars their brilliant rays controul,
?And faintly gleam with light.
And must I thus for ever mourn,
?The trembling lover said,
Thus in eternal torments burn,
?And love, tho' unrepaid.
Ah! thou relentless, stubborn fair,
?Thou tyrant of my heart,
Can thy cold breast no comfort spare,
?To mitigate my smart.
Ah! cruel fate's who govern's all,
?With wise omniscient eye,
Why did not I in battle fall?
?Why not in battle die?
When thro' the briny main profound,
?We chas'd the hostile foe,
Why were my cares with conquest crown'd,
?Severer cares to know.
When o'er America's wide plain
?We plung'd thro' floods of gore,
Where heaps on heaps of men were slain,
?And artful thunders roar.
Why were proud Gallia's sons so kind,
?To spare my wretched breath?
But this in future time to find,
?A still severer death.
For ten years Britannia's lord,
?Did I undaunted serve,
For him I bore the British sword,
?His freedom to preserve.
But ah, alas! my toils are vain,
?No recompence I knew,
O PHELIA treats me with disdain,
?My nation slights me too!
Oft did I hope thro' trains of toils,
?My fortune to improve,
And to return with richest spoils,
?Victorious to my love.
When plenty flush'd my youthful years,
?That love would on me smil'd,
But now too late the truth appears,
?I only was beguil'd.
For her I stood the long campaign,
?In distant climes unknown,
But now she treats me with disdain,
?And cares my labours crown.
Oh, cruel land! oh, cruel fair,
?And destinies unkind,
Must I for ever thus despair,
?Nor the least comfort find.
Yet death shall end the trying strife,
?That fate forbears to do,
My hand commands my death—my life,
?I droop—I die for you!
He said, and with a fatal blow,
?Deep plung'd the piercing steel,
In his cold heart transfix'd in woe,
?Supine the lover fell.
He fell, and falling spurn'd the ground,
?With carnage deeply dy'd,
His spirit issu'd at the wound,
?He sigh'd, and groan'd, and died.
'T WAS in that season of the year,
?When Sol in Cancer reigns,
When his bright beams obsequious cheer,
?The hoary northern plains.
When T HYRIS , deep opprest with woe,
?Sought the sequester'd shade,
Fell sorrow sat upon his brow,
?Which inward grief betray'd.
The bird of night, with dreary croak,
?With horror struck the ear,
The raven from the hollow oak,
?Mark'd melancholy near.
The wint'ry, hoarse, resounding main,
?Beat foaming on the beach,
Wild echo answer'd back the strain,
?With counterfeited speech.
The scene struck horror to the soul,
?The moon scarce deign'd her light,
The stars their brilliant rays controul,
?And faintly gleam with light.
And must I thus for ever mourn,
?The trembling lover said,
Thus in eternal torments burn,
?And love, tho' unrepaid.
Ah! thou relentless, stubborn fair,
?Thou tyrant of my heart,
Can thy cold breast no comfort spare,
?To mitigate my smart.
Ah! cruel fate's who govern's all,
?With wise omniscient eye,
Why did not I in battle fall?
?Why not in battle die?
When thro' the briny main profound,
?We chas'd the hostile foe,
Why were my cares with conquest crown'd,
?Severer cares to know.
When o'er America's wide plain
?We plung'd thro' floods of gore,
Where heaps on heaps of men were slain,
?And artful thunders roar.
Why were proud Gallia's sons so kind,
?To spare my wretched breath?
But this in future time to find,
?A still severer death.
For ten years Britannia's lord,
?Did I undaunted serve,
For him I bore the British sword,
?His freedom to preserve.
But ah, alas! my toils are vain,
?No recompence I knew,
O PHELIA treats me with disdain,
?My nation slights me too!
Oft did I hope thro' trains of toils,
?My fortune to improve,
And to return with richest spoils,
?Victorious to my love.
When plenty flush'd my youthful years,
?That love would on me smil'd,
But now too late the truth appears,
?I only was beguil'd.
For her I stood the long campaign,
?In distant climes unknown,
But now she treats me with disdain,
?And cares my labours crown.
Oh, cruel land! oh, cruel fair,
?And destinies unkind,
Must I for ever thus despair,
?Nor the least comfort find.
Yet death shall end the trying strife,
?That fate forbears to do,
My hand commands my death—my life,
?I droop—I die for you!
He said, and with a fatal blow,
?Deep plung'd the piercing steel,
In his cold heart transfix'd in woe,
?Supine the lover fell.
He fell, and falling spurn'd the ground,
?With carnage deeply dy'd,
His spirit issu'd at the wound,
?He sigh'd, and groan'd, and died.