Daughter, whence come you
So white and so fair? —
Mother, I come
From the banks of a river.
There found I my love
By a rose-tree in flower. —
In flower, my daughter
So white and so fair. —
Mother, I come
From the banks of a stream.
There found I my love
By a red rose-tree. —
Red rose-tree, my daughter
So white and so fair.

The rose is weeping for her love,
The Nightingale;
And he is flying fast above,
To her he will not fail.
Already golden eve appears,
He wings his way along;
Ah! look, he comes to kiss her tears,
And soothe her with his song.

The moon in pearly light may steep
The still blue air;
The rose hath ceased to droop and weep,
For lo! her love is there.
He sings to her, and o'er the trees
She hears his sweet notes swim;
The world may weary; she but sees
Her love, and hears but him.

Ah! soft wanton zephyrs soft blow,
On th' bank is Miranda reclin'd;
Disturb not those hillocks of snow,
Which alternate rise with the wind.

Distil from each fragrant flower,
The sweets which your breath can impart;
And Love, let her feel thy soft pow'r,
But cautiously wound with thy dart.

Be certain you strike not too deep,
Nor give her fair bosom a pain;
And, ah! when awaken'd from sleep,

How chang'd my Phillis? can it be,
You love so well, and only me?
The pleasing Wonder I'll believe:
But shou'd you change your Mind again,
And doat on any other Swain ,
In Pity, Phillis , thus deceive .

Tho' Time may steal the roseate blush
On which I now so fondly gaze,
Its sternest power can never crush
The love which lit my youthful days.

Your cheek may blanch, your eye grow dim,
Your clustering locks with sorrow fade,
But still you'll be as dear to him
Who on your breast in Boyhood laid.

Who, o'er you bent whole happy hours,
Or round your form enraptured clung,
While Love and Hope transformed to flowers
The sharpest thorns that near him sprung.

Who, in his childish heart would cherish

Gak darmo prsy hozj

How vainly, vainly burns my breast.
It burns an unextinguish'd fire;
And what can still desire to rest?
What stop the ragings of desire?

Can love, can burning love be quell'd
By love's reciprocal return?
Alas! the fires my bosom held,
Still raging in that bosom burn.

Where thorns around the rose-stem grew
There pour'd I forth my plaints forlorn;

When love and the fireside inspired,
Words dropped from his eloquent lips
Like music from the golden lyre
Swept by Apollo's finger-tips.

When love and the fireside inspired,
Words dropped from his eloquent lips
Like music from the golden lyre
Swept by Apollo's finger-tips.

'Twas in that Month which follows May ,
(I never can forget the Day! )
When first I gaz'd on Phaebe 's Eyes,
When first my Heart became her Prize
In Sighs the tedious Summer past:
We cheerful Autumn saw at last;
But still I sigh'd: rude Winter came;
In Frost , and Snow I burnt the same:
Now Spring returns; still, still I burn!
When, Love! must Phaebe have her Turn

When Poets lavish all their Store,
 To paint a Mistress gay;
They prove not how their Souls adore,
 But what their Muse can say.

Fame, the great Object of their Vows,
 By various Names they woo;
And, while to Beauty Fancy bows,
 Their Souls a Breath persue.

Me no such vain Ambition movesm——
 Ye Bards, enjoy your Fame!
My Heart can simply say it loves :
 And heave M ONTELIA 's Name.

M ONTELIA 's Charms so far excell,
 They make my Soul their Slave;
She's more, at least, than I can tell;
 And all I wish to have!

Cease, soft Belinda , to deplore
Your favour'd Dove , who feels no more,
Nor can your Grief the Loss repair;
Rather compassionate your Swain ,
Who lives , and loves, and sighs in vain,
And longs for Death to end his Care .