[
Nereides
:
]
Eclogue
VII
.
Sturio
,
Hippias
,
Myra
.
Stur.
The
Waves
are
still
,
and
the
unclouded
Day
Smiles
on
the
murm'ring
Sea
with
joyous
Light
.
Begin
the
Song
,
while
wanton
Dolphins
play
,
And
the
bright
Sun
,
and
pleasing
Calms
invite
.
Hip
.
Happy
the
Youth
,
whom
beauteous
Myra
loves
,
No
Nymph
so
nimbly
swims
,
so
graceful
moves
.
When
to
soft
Words
she
tunes
her
artful
Tongue
,
The
Winds
themselves
will
listen
to
her
Song
.
Stur.
Anthis
I
saw
,
and
to
my
envy'd
Eyes
The
circling
Blood
with
conscious
Ardour
flies
.
When
Anthis
smiles
Joy
fills
the
swelling
Veins
,
Nor
Winter-Calms
,
nor
Summer's
gentle
Rains
Are
half
so
grateful
to
the
fishing
Swains
.
Her
rising
Breasts
are
white
as
polish'd
Shells
,
And
in
each
part
a
different
Beauty
dwells
.
Hip
.
When
Myra
frowns
,
tho'
all
the
Sky
was
fair
,
The
Clouds
return
,
and
thick
the
moistned
Air
;
The
smiling
Heav'n
,
when
e'er
she
looks
serene
,
Puts
on
its
Azure
,
and
the
Sea
its
Green
.
Stur.
When
first
a
Glance
from
Galatea's
Eyes
Pierc'd
thro'
my
Heart
,
and
did
my
Soul
surprize
,
Amaz'd
I
fell
—
Beauty
it
self
too
powerful
will
affright
;
No
Lightning
moves
so
swift
,
or
shines
so
bright
.
Hip
.
The
Cramp-fish
touch'd
benumbs
with
sudden
Pain
,
And
shivering
Horrour
strikes
thro'
ev'ry
Vein
.
But
by
one
distant
Look
from
her
I
lov'd
My
Blood
grew
stagnate
,
and
I
stood
unmov'd
.
Stur.
We
curse
the
Dog
,
and
loath
the
shapeless
Bat
(
As
sad
Forerunners
of
unlucky
Fate
)
These
,
we
deform'd
,
and
frightful
Monsters
call
,
But
they
(
each
in
their
kind
)
are
beauteous
all
;
Fondly
we
love
,
and
without
Reason
hate
,
And
worship
Idols
,
which
our
selves
create
.
Hip
.
Beauty's
a
shining
Spark
of
heav'nly
Fire
,
That
kindles
in
the
Soul
immense
Desire
;
It
draws
with
pleasing
Force
the
willing
Mind
;
Beauty
divine
like
this
we
seldom
find
:
Few
things
are
truly
fair
,
tho'
perfect
in
their
kind
.
Stur.
Who
Myra
loves
,
when
Clytie
appears
,
Course
tastless
Thornback
to
the
Sole
prefers
.
I
her
pale
Cheeks
,
and
languid
Looks
despise
;
Well
may
she
kill
;
for
Death
is
in
her
Eyes
.
Hip
.
I
hate
the
full-cheek'd
Blowze
,
and
flushing
Maid
,
Whose
angry
Red
makes
ev'ry
Youth
afraid
:
Such
flaming
Nymphs
want
ev'ry
real
Grace
,
They
cool
our
Passion
,
while
they
burn
our
Face
.
Stur.
Envy
is
pale
,
and
pale
is
sad
Despair
.
Can
Myra
then
be
pale
,
and
yet
be
fair
?
The
Water-Lillies
are
a
faintish
Sweet
.
I
know
an
Island
Grove
,
where
Nereids
meet
;
There
blushing
Beds
of
beauteous
Roses
grow
,
From
whom
diffusive
Smells
in
fragrant
Circles
flow
.
Hip
.
Would
Myra
yield
to
love
,
would
she
comply
,
Her
Cheeks
would
colour
with
a
fresher
Die
.
But
tho'
ev'n
now
she
wants
no
graceful
Charm
,
Her
Voice
kills
farther
than
her
Eyes
can
harm
.
Nereus
himself
above
the
Waves
appear'd
,
She
sung
—
and
he
with
secret
Pleasure
heard
,
And
list'ning
smil'd
,
and
stroak'd
his
hoary
Beard
.
While
Doris
stood
afar
,
and
jealous
grew
,
With
watchful
Eyes
she
look'd
,
and
fear'd
what
might
ensue
.
Stur.
So
have
I
heard
one
praise
the
chattering
Pie
,
And
swear
the
Coots
with
artful
Musick
cry
:
But
hark
—
ev'n
now
I
hear
some
distant
Song
.
Hip
.
'Tis
Myra's
Voice
;
I
know
her
warbling
Tongue
.
Move
,
Sturio
,
softly
on
;
then
sudden
rise
,
And
in
her
wanton
Song
the
easy
Nymph
surprize
.