Phillis

I SAID , — on the banks by the stream
I've pip'd for the shepherds too long:
Oh grant me, ye Muses, a theme,
Where glory may brighten my song!
But Pan bade me stick to my strain,
Nor lessons too lofty rehearse;
Ambition befits not a swain,
And Phillis loves pastoral verse.

The rose, though a beautiful red,
Looks faded to Phillis's bloom;
And the breeze from the bean-flower bed
To her breath's but a feeble perfume:
The dew-drop so limpid and gay,
That loose on the violet lies,
Though brighten'd by Phaebus's ray,
Wants lustre, compar'd to her eyes.

A lily I pluck'd in full pride,
Its freshness with her's to compare;
And foolishly thought, till I try'd,
The flow'ret was equally fair.
How, Corydon, could you mistake?
Your fault be with sorrow confest;
You said the white swans on the lake
For softness might rival her breast.

While thus I went on in her praise,
My Phillis pass'd sportive along:
Ye poets, I covet no bays,
She smil'd, — — a reward for my song!
I find the god Pan's in the right,
No fame's like the fair one's applause;
And Cupid must crown with delight
The shepherd that sings in his cause.