The Inquiry

Ye poor little sheep! Ah! well may ye stray,
While sad is your shepherd, and Clio away!
Tell where have you been; have you met with my love,
On the mountain, or valley, or meadow, or grove?
Alas-a-day! No — ye are starv'd and half dead;
Ye saw not my love, or ye all had been fed.
Oh, Sun! did you see her? Ah, surely you did:
'Mong what — willows, or woodbines, or reeds, is she hid?
Ye tall whistling pines! that on yonder hill grow,
And o'erlook the beautiful valley below,
Did you see her a-roving in wood, or in brake,
Or bathing her fair limbs in some silent lake?
Ye mountains! that look on the vigorous east,
And the north, and the south, and the wearisome west,
Pray tell where she hides her; you surely do know;
And let not her lover pine after her so.
Oh! had I the wings of an eagle, I'd fly
Along with bright Phaebus all over the sky;
Like an eagle look down, with my wings wide display'd,
And dart in mYeye at each whispering shade:
I'd search ev'ry tuft in my diligent tour,
I'd unravel the woodbine, and look in each bow'r,
Till I found out my Clio, and ended my pain,
And made myself quiet and happy again.