While lost so long to his Arcadian shade, Careless of fortune and of fame he stray'd, Philander to a barbarous region came And found a partner in a colder shade,
Fair as Amanda; and perhaps might claim With her the impassion'd soul, and friendship's holy flame; For sprightly loves upon her bosom play'd, And youth was in her blush, and every shepherd said
She was a modest and accomplish'd dame. What have I done, ( the wandering shepherd cry'd ) Thus to be banish'd from a face so fair, ( For now the frosts had spoil'd the daisies’ pride,
And he once more for roving did prepare ) Ah, what have I to do with swelling seas Who once could pipe upon the hollow reed?— I take no joy in such rude scenes as these,
Nor look with pleasure on the vagrant weed That gulphy streams from rugged caverns bore, Which floats thro’ every clime, and never finds a shore! But other fields and other flowers were mine,
‘ Till wild disorder drove me from the plain. And the black dogs of war were seen to join, Howl o'er the soil, and dispossess the swain: Why must I leave these climes of frost and snow?—
Were it not better in these glooms to stay, And, while on high the autumnal tempests blow, Let others o'er the wild seas take their way, And I with my Livinia's tresses play?—
Ah, no, no, no! the imperious wave demands That I must leave these shores, and lose these lands And southward to the high equator stray: But Fancy now has lost her vernal hue;
See Nature in her wintry garb array'd — And where is that fine dream which once she drew While yet by Cambria's stream she fondly play'd! Lavinia heard his long complaint, and said,
Wouldst thou, for me, detain the expecting sail —? Go, wanderer, go — the trees have lost their shade, And my gay flowers are blasted by the gale, And the bright stream is chill'd that wandered thro’ the vale:
Ah, why, Philander, do you sigh, so sad! Why all this change in such a jovial lad? Smooth seas shall be your guard, and, free from harms, Restore you, safely, to Lavinia's arms!
Or should the eastern tempest rend your sail, Trust me, dear shepherd, should the seas prevail, And you be laid in Neptune's cradle low, The winds will bring me back the woeful tale
When I must to the long shore weeping go, And while I see the ruffian surge aspire, Some consolation will it be to know No pain or anguish can afflict the head
The limbs or stomach, when the heart is dead. Thus long discoursing, on the bank they stood, The heavy burthen'd barque at anchor lay, While the broad topsails, from the yards unfurl'd,
Shook in the wind, and summon'd him away; Brisk blew the gales, and curl'd the yielding flood, Nor had he one excuse to urge his stay — Be chang'd ( he said ) ye winds that blow so fair;
Why do not tempests harrow up the deep, And all but the moist south in quiet sleep! To the bleak shore the parting lovers came, And while Philander did his sighs renew,
So near the deep they bade their last farewell That the rough surge, to quench the mutual flame Burst in and broke the embrace, and o'er Lavinia flew; While a dark cloud hung lowering o'er the main,
From whence the attendants many an omen drew, And said Philander would not come again! Now to their various heights the sails ascend, And southward from the land their course they bore.
Lavinia mourn'd the lover and the friend, And stood awhile upon the sandy shore, ‘ Till interposing seas the hull conceal'd, And distant sails could only greet her view,
Like a faint cloud that brush'd the watery field, And swell'd by whistling winds, impetuous, flew: Then to a neighbouring hill the nymph withdrew, And the dear object from that height survey'd,
‘ Till all was lost and mingled with the main, And night descended, with her gloomy shade, And kindled in the heavens her starry train. Safe to the south the ocean-wading keel
In one short month its rapid course achiev'd, And the cold star, that marks the Arctic pole, Was in the bosom of the deep receiv'd: And now the weary barque at anchor rode
Where Oronoko pours his sultry wave, Moist Surinam, by torrents overflow'd, And Amazonia vends the fainting slave;— Philander, there, not fated to return,
Perceiv'd destruction in his bosom burn, And the warm flood of life too fiercely, glow: The vertic sun a deadly fever gave, And the moist soil bestow'd his bones a grave,
Deep in the waste, where oceans overflow, And Oronoko's streams the forests lave. 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!
Cookies on Poetry Cove