Джон Вулкотт (John Wolcot)

Pastoral Ballad

The Swains and the Virgins so gay
Resort to my fountains and groves;
Joy follows wherever they stray,
And my vales seem the Court of the Loves.

But with wonder they mark me forlorn,
'Mid fountains and valleys so fair—
Ah! their hearts have no reason to mourn,
Nor to heave the sad sigh of despair.

To love, and be not lov'd again,
Is a curse that embitters each hour;
Then dull are the songs of the plain,
And faded the blooms of the bower!

But with her who will smile on our sighs,
Even rocks of the Desert must bloom,
Pale Night be a Sun to our eyes,
And the Dungeon depriv'd of its gloom!

Поддержать сайт