John Wolcot (Джон Вулкотт)

Julia; or, the Victim of Love

       A Pastoral Ballad

She is dead who gave life to the grove,
And covers our valley with gloom!
She who led all the Pleasures and Loves,
No joins the pale band of the Tomb.

She whose beauty commanded the heart,
So prais'd, so ador'd, so desir'd;
Sunk, the innocent victim of art,
And the passion her beauty inspir'd.

Yet silent was she on the Swain
Whose cruelty doom'd her to mourn;
In secret her soul would complain,
In secret her anguish would burn.

Tho' faint was the blush on her cheek,
And deep in her bosom the thorn;
A smile 'midst her sorrows would break,
Like a ray through the clouds in the morn.

She would sit near yon willow and sigh,
And pant in the shade of the trees:
"Sweet ZEPHYR, bring health," she would cry;
But HEALTH never came with the breeze.

And oft she would drink of the brook,
But HEALTH never came with the rill;
Then around on the heights she would look,
But HEALTH never came to the hill.

On her Dog she look'd down with a tear,
And sigh'd, as she patted his head,
"Poor FIDELLE! thou wilt suffer, I fear,
When thy Mistress, who loves thee, is dead.

"Thou hast ever been constant and kind;
My fondness ne'er met with a slight:
In thee a firm friendship I find:
How unhappy when out of my sight!

"When with speed I could travel the plain,
With thy Mistress to sport was thy pride;
And now I am weak and in pain,
Thou art heartless and dull by my side.

"When I'm gone, thou, poor fellow, wilt pine,
And seek me, uneasy, around;
Beseeching the swains, with a whine,
To tell where thy Friend may be found.

"Shouldst thou find my cold dwelling at last,
Near my sod thou wilt mope the long day:
Nor the night, nor the rain, nor the blast,
Nay, nor hunger, will force thee away."

Thus she spoke to her Fav'rite, whose eye
Was fix'd upon those of the MAID:
Then he lick'd her fond hand at her sigh,
As if conscious of all she had said!

Sweet nymph! What a sudden decay!
Now her limbs she could scarcely sustain;
Now her head would sink feebly away,
Like the lily press'd down by the rain.

At length on her pillow she fell;
In silence we watch'd her last breath;
When she bade us for ever farewell,
How divine, tho' the whisper of Death!

No struggle in dying she knew,
Life pass'd with such sweetness away!
So calm from the world she withdrew,
Her last sigh seem'd the zephyr of May.

Beneath a plain stone she is laid,
For needless of praise is the tale;
Since the virtues that shone in the MAID,
May be seen in the tears of the VALE.

1. In Imitation of Spenser, Written at Santa Cruz
2. Pastoral Ballad
3. Delia
4. A Pastoral Elegy, on the Death of Jackson, the Musical Composer
5. Alexander's Feast

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