Oft' to the winding shore Lavinia came Where fond Philander bade his last adieu, (And that steep hill which gave her the last view) Till seven long years had round their orbits ran, Yet no Philander came, or none she knew; Alas (she cry'd) for every nymph but me Each sea-bleach'd sail some welcome wanderer brings, And all but I get tidings of their friends; Sad Mariamne drowns herself in woe If one poor month Amyntor quits her arms, And says, "from Ashley's stream he comes too slow,"-- And bodes the heavy storm, and midnight harms: What would she say, if doom'd to wait, like me, And mourn long years, and no Philander see! [333] The text follows the edition of 1795. THE FAIR SOLITARY[334] No more these groves a glad remembrance claim Where grief consumes a half deluded dame, Whom to these isles a modern Theseus bore, And basely left, frail virtue to deplore;-- In foreign climes detained from all she loved, By friends neglected, long by Fortune proved, While sad and solemn passed the unwelcome day What charms had life for her, to tempt her stay? Deceived in all; for meanness could deceive, Expecting still, and still condemned to grieve, She scarcely saw--to different hearts allied That her dear Florio ne'er pursued a bride! Are griefs, like thine, to Florio's bosom known?-- Must these, alas! be ceaseless in your own? Life is a dream!--its varying shades I see; But this cold wanderer hardly dreams of thee-- The bloom of health, which bade all hearts adore, To your pale cheek what physic shall restore? Vain are those drugs that art and love prepares, No art redeems the waste of sighs and tears! [334] Published in the 1795 edition under the title "The Mourning Nun." Text from the edition of 1809. AMANDA IN A CONSUMPTION[335] Smit by the glance of your bright eyes When I, Amanda, fondly gaze, Strange feelings in my bosom rise And passion all my reason sways: Worlds I would banish from my view, And quit the gods--to talk with you. The smile that decks your fading cheek, To me a heavy heart declares; When you are silent I would speak But cowardice alarms my fears: All must be sense that you do prize, All that I say--be grave and wise. When wandering in the evening shade I shared her pain, and calmed her grief, A thousand tender things I said, But all I said gave no relief: When from her hair I dried the dew, She sighed, and said--I am not for you! When drooping, dull, and almost dead With fevers brought from sultry climes, She would not wrap my fainting head; But recommended me some rhymes On patience and on fortitude, And other things--less understood. When, aiming to engage her heart With verses from the muses' stock; She sighed, regardless of the art, And counted seconds by the clock; "And thus, (she said) will verse decay, "And thus the muse will pass away!"