DAMON
and
STREPHON
.
A
Pastoral
Complaint
.
Damon
.
SAY
,
why
these
Sighs
that
in
thy
Bosom
rise
?
Why
from
thy
Cheek
the
wonted
Crimson
flies
?
Why
on
the
Ground
are
fix'd
thy
streaming
Eyes
?
Strephon
.
Still
let
this
Bosom
swell
with
aking
Woe
,
And
from
my
Eyes
the
streaming
Sorrows
flow
.
But
Oh
!
the
Cause
—
(
See
Clouds
are
gath'ring
round
,
And
Zephyrs
wait
to
catch
the
mournful
Sound
;
The
sick'ning
Trees
all
shed
their
blooming
Store
)
Why
wouldst
thou
hear
it
?
—
Sylvius
is
no
more
.
Damon
.
Is
Sylvius
dead
?
—
then
Phillis
rend
thy
Hair
,
And
blot
those
Features
that
were
late
so
fair
.
Thou
Sun
,
forbear
to
gild
this
fatal
Day
;
Nor
you
my
Lambkins
dare
to
think
of
Play
.
Strephon
.
No
more
alas
!
—
no
more
the
tuneful
Swain
Shall
with
soft
Numbers
charm
the
list'ning
Plain
.
No
more
his
Flute
shall
greet
the
dawning
Spring
;
Nor
to
his
Hand
rebound
the
trembling
String
.
Damon
.
Ah
cruel
Death
!
wou'd
none
but
Sylvius
do
?
No
meaner
Swain
amongst
the
worthy
few
?
Why
didst
thou
take
(
and
leave
the
baser
Tribe
)
The
Flow'r
of
Shepherds
and
the
Muses
Pride
?
Strephon
.
None
knew
like
him
the
heav'nly
Notes
to
swell
,
And
moral
Tales
in
pleasing
Numbers
tell
.
While
Sylvius
sung
,
none
thought
the
Day
too
long
;
But
all
repin'd
at
the
too
hasty
Song
.
Damon
.
Ye
solemn
Winds
that
whistle
through
the
Glade
,
Or
rudely
bluster
in
the
darker
Shade
,
Go
bear
our
Sorrows
to
the
distant
Shore
,
And
tell
them
Sylvius
chears
our
Plains
no
more
.
Strephon
.
Vain
are
our
Sighs
,
our
Tears
as
vainly
flow
,
And
each
sad
Bosom
swells
with
fruitless
Woe
!
As
northern
Blasts
destroy
the
Autumn
Store
,
So
Sylvius
fell
and
shall
return
no
more
.
Damon
.
Enough
of
Sorrow
—
now
your
Garlands
bring
;
Crop
all
the
Beauties
of
the
early
Spring
;
Around
his
Tomb
these
willing
Hands
shall
twine
The
choicest
Briers
of
sweet
Eglantine
.
Strephon
.
On
his
cold
Grave
a
Laurel
I
bestow
,
Which
late
did
in
my
Father's
Garden
grow
:
This
Wreath
Amyntas
ask'd
to
shade
her
Brow
,
But
to
my
Sylvius
I
resign
it
now
.
Damon
.
The
pensive
Swains
shall
strike
their
Bosoms
there
,
And
soft-ey'd
Virgins
drop
a
gentle
Tear
:
May
some
good
Angel
guard
the
sacred
Ground
,
And
Flow'rs
unfading
shed
their
Sweets
around
.