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Poem by William Broome

A Pastoral

How calm the Evening! See the falling Day
Gilds every Mountain with a ruddy Ray!
In gentle Sighs the softly whispering Breeze
Salutes the Flow'r, and waves the trembling Trees.
Hark! the Night-Warbler from you vocal Bows
Glads every Valley with melodious Woes:
Thy frisking Lambkins wanton o'er the Plain,
And the glad Season claims a gladsome Strain.
Begin Ч ye Ecchoes, listen to the Song,
And with its Sweetness, pleas'd each Note prolong.

Sing Muse, and thou, O Hawkins! deign to view
What the Muse sings, The Song to thee is due.
Feed round my Goats, ye Sheep in Safety graze,
Ye Winds breath gently, while I tune my Lays.
The joyous Spring draws nigh, ambrosial Show'rs
Unbinds the Earth, the Earth unbinds the Flow'rs;
The Flow'rs blow sweet, the Daffadils unfold
The spreading Glories of their blooming Gold.

As the gay Hours advance, the Blossoms shoot,
The knitting Blossoms harden into Fruit;
And as the Autumn by Degrees ensues,
The mellowing Fruits display their streaky Hues.

When the Winds whistle, and the Tempest roars,
And foamy Billows lash the sounding Shores;
The bloomy Beauties of the Pastures die,
And in gay Heaps of fragrant Ruin lie.

When glitt'ring Snow incessant downward pours,
And brightens the dull Air with shining Show'rs;
The Forest bends beneath the fleecy Load,
And Icy Fetters bind the solid Flood.

I love (and ever shall my Love remain)
The fairest, kindest Virgin of the Plain;
With equal Passion her soft Bosom glows,
Feels the sweet Pains, and shares the heav'nly Woes.

With a feign'd Passion she I love beguiles,
And gayly false the dear Dissembler smiles;
But let her still those bless'd Deceits employ,
Still may she feign, and cheat me into Joy!

On yonder Bank the yielding Nymph reclin'd,
Gods! how transported I, and she how kind?
There rise, ye Flow'rs, and thee your Pride display,
There shed your Odors, where the Fair one lay!

O'er the green Mountain and the damask'd Mead,
From my Embraces the coy Wanton fled;
'Till by yon Stream restrain'd she panting stood,
For ever bless'd be thy auspicious Flood!

Far hence to happier Climes Belinda strays,
But in my Breast her lovely Image stays.
O to these Plains again, bright Nymph, repair,
Or from my Breast far hence thy Image bear!

If in the murmuring Stream be thy Delight,
If the gay Rose or Lilly please thy Sight,
The Streams here murmur, here the Roses glow,
And the proud Lillies rise to shade thy Brow.

Thy Name, O Hawkins! shall improve my Song,
The pleasing Labour of my grateful Tongue;
Waft it, ye Breezes, to the Hills around,
And sport, ye Ecchoes, with the Favourite Sound.

His early Worth my Muse shall loud proclaim,
And swell the Numbers with his lofty Name:
His Name to Heav'n propitious Zephyrs bear,
And breath it to his Kindred Angels there.

But see the Night displays her starry Train,
And silver Dews imperial the glittering Plain:
An awful Horror fills the gloomy Woods,
And bluish Mists rise from the smoaking Floods.
Haste, ASTROPHEL, to fold thy woolly Care,
And guard the Younglins from th' unwholesome Air.

William Broome

William Broome's other poems:
  1. The Oak, and the Dunghill
  2. Melancholy
  3. The Rosebud. To the Lady Jane Wharton
  4. To a Lady of Thirty

Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • George Evans A Pastoral ("Nature feels the touch of noon")
  • Walter Landor A Pastoral ("Damon was sitting in the grove")
  • Ellis Butler A Pastoral ("Just as the sun was setting")

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