nd--kind souls--love in death.
A thick wood clouds their walks, where day scarce peeps,
And on each hand cypress and poppy sleeps;
The drowsy rivers slumber, and springs there
Blab not, but softly melt into a tear;
A sickly dull air fans them, which can have,
When most in force, scarce breath to build a wave.
On either bank through the still shades appear
A scene of pensive flow'rs, whose bosoms wear
Drops of a lover's blood, the emblem'd truths
Of deep despair, and love-slain kings and youths.
The Hyacinth, and self-enamour'd boy
Narcissus flourish there, with Venus' joy,
The spruce Adonis, and that prince whose flow'r
Hath sorrow languag'd on him to this hour;
All sad with love they hang their heads, and grieve
As if their passions in each leaf did live;
And here--alas!--these soft-soul'd ladies stray,
And--O! too late!--treason in love betray.
Her blasted birth sad Semele repeats,
And with her tears would quench the thund'rer's heats,
Then shakes her bosom, as if fir'd again,
And fears another lightning's flaming train.
The lovely Procris here bleeds, sighs, and swoons,
Then wakes, and kisses him that gave her wounds.
Sad Hero holds a torch forth, and doth light
Her lost Leander through the waves and night,
Her boatman desp'rate Sappho still admires,
And nothing but the sea can quench her fires.
Distracted Phaedra with a restless eye
Her disdain'd letters reads, then casts them by.
Rare, faithful Thisbe--sequest'red from these--
A silent, unseen sorrow doth best please;
For her love's sake and last good-night poor she
Walks in the shadow of a mulberry.
Near her young Canace with Dido sits,
A lovely couple, but of desp'rate wits;
Both di'd alike, both pierc'd their tender breasts,
This with her father's sword, that with her guest's.
Within the thickest textures of the grove
Diana in her silver beams doth rove;
Her crown of stars the pitchy air invades,
And with a faint light gilds the silent shades,
Whilst her sad thoughts, fix'd on her sleepy lover,
To Latmos hill and his retirements move her.
A thousand more through the wide, darksome wood
Feast on their cares, the maudlin lover's food;
For grief and absence do but edge desire,
And death is fuel to a lover's fire.
To see these trophies of his wanton bow,