Cheer'd by the milder beam, the sprightly youth Speeds to the well-known pool, whose crystal depth A sandy bottom shows. Awhile he stands Gazing the inverted landscape, half-afraid To meditate the blue profound below; Then plunges headlong down the circling flood. His ebon tresses and his rosy cheek Instant emerge; and through the obedient wave, At each short breathing by his lip repell'd, With arms and legs according well, he makes, As humor leads, an easy-winding path; While, from his polish'd sides, a dewy light Effuses on the pleas'd spectators round. This is the purest exercise of health, The kind refresher of the summer heats, Nor, when cold Winter keens the brightening flood, Would I weak-shivering linger on the brink. Thus life redoubles; and is oft preserved, By the bold swimmer, in the swift illapse Of accident disastrous. Hence the limbs Knit into force; and the same Roman arm That rose victorious o'er the conquer'd earth, First learned, while tender, to subdue the wave. Even, from the body's purity, the mind Receives a secret sympathetic aid. Close in the covert of an hazel copse, Where winded into pleasing solitudes Runs out the rambling dale, young Damon sat; Pensive, and pierc'd with love's delightful pangs. There to the stream that down the distant rocks Hoarse-murmuring fell, and plaintive breeze that play'd Among the bending willows, falsely he Of Musidora's cruelty complain'd. She felt his flame; but deep within her breast, In bashful coyness, or in maiden pride, The soft return conceal'd--save when it stole In sidelong glances from her downcast eye, Or from her swelling soul in stifled sighs. Touched by the scene, no stranger to his vows, He fram'd a melting lay, to try her heart; And, if an infant passion struggled there, To call that passion forth. Thrice-happy swain! A lucky chance, that oft decides the fate Of mighty monarchs, then decided thine. For, lo! conducted by the laughing Loves, This cool retreat his Musidora sought: Warm in her cheek the sultry season glow'd; And, rob'd in loose array, she came to bathe Her fervent limbs in the refreshing stream. What shall he do? In sweet confusion lost, And dubious flutterings, he awhile remain'd. A pure ingenuous elegance of soul, A delicate refinement known to few, Perplex'd his breast, and urg'd him to retire; But love forbade. Ye prudes in virtue, say, Say, ye severest, what would you have done? Meantime, this fairer nymph than ever bless'd Arcadian stream, with timid eye around The banks surveying, stripp'd her beauteous limbs To taste the lucid coolness of the flood. Ah! then, not Paris on the piny top Of Ida panted stronger, when aside The rival goddesses the vail divine