On Miranda's Leaving the Country

The sun departing, hides his head,
The lily and the rose are dead,
The birds forget to sing;
The cooing turtles now no more
Repeat their amorous ditties o'er,
But watch the approaching Spring.

For soon the merry month of May
Restores the bright all-cheering ray;
Soft notes charm every grove:
The flow'rs ambrosial incense breathe,
And all above and all beneath
Is fragrance, joy, and love.

So when Miranda hence retires,
Each shepherd only not expires;
How rueful is the scene!
How the dull moments creep along!
No sportive dance, no rural song,
No gambols on the green.

Yet when the radiant nymph appears,
Each field its richest livery wears,
All Nature's blithe and gay;
The swains, transported with delight,
After a long and gloomy night,
Bless the reviving day.

While thus, indulgent to our pray'r,
Kind Heav'n permitted us to share
A blessing so divine;
While smiling hope gave some relief,
And joys alternate sooth'd our grief,
What shepherd could repine?

But now—her fatal loss we mourn,
Never, oh! never to return
To these deserted plains:
Undone, abandon'd to despair,
Alas! 'tis winter all the year
To us unhappy swains.

Ye little Loves! lament around;
With empty quivers strew the ground,
Your bows unbent lay down:
Harmless your wounds, pointless your darts,
And frail your empire o'er our hearts,
Till she your triumphs crown.

Ye Nymphs! ye Fawns! complaming sigh;
Ye Graces! let your tresses fly,
The sport of every wind;
Ye mimic Echoes! tell the woods,
Repeat it to the murmuring floods,
She's gone! she's gone! unkind!

Break, Shepherds! break each tuneless reed,
Let all your flocks at random feed,
Each flowery garland tear;
Since Wit and Beauty quit the plain,
Past pleasures but enhance our pain,
And life's not worth our care.