I've taught thee Love's sweet lesson o'er, A task that is not learn'd with tears: Was Sylvia e'er so blest before In her wild, solitary years? Then what does he deserve, the Youth, Who made her conn so dear a truth! Till now in silent vales to roam, Singing vain songs to heedless flowers, Or watch the dashing billows foam, Amid thy lonely myrtle bowers, To weave light crowns of various hue,- Were all the joys thy bosom knew. The wild bird, though most musical, Could not to thy sweet plaint reply; The streamlet, and the waterfall, Could only weep when thou did'st sigh! Thou could'st not change one dulcet word Either with billow, or with bird. |