John Cunningham

The Respite

Ah, what is't to me that the grasshopper sings!
Or what, that the meadows are fair!
That (like little flow'rets, if mounted on wings,)
The butterflies flaunt it in air!
Ye birds, I'll no longer attend to a lay;
Your haunts in the forest resign;
Shall you, with your true loves, be happy all day,
Whilst I am divided from mine?

Where woodbines and willows inclin'd to unite,
We twisted a blooming alcove;
And oft has my Damon, with smiles of delight,
Declar'd it the Mantle of Love.
The roses that crept to our mutual recess,
And rested among the sweet boughs,
Are faded — they droop — and they cannot do less,
For Damon is false to his vows.

This oak has for ages the tempest defied,
We call it — the King of the grove;
He swore, a light breeze should its centre divide,
When he was not true to his love:
Come, come, gentle zephyr, in justice descend,
His falsehood you're bound to display;
This oak and its honours you'll easily rend,
For Damon has left me — — a day.

The shepherd rush'd forth from behind the thick tree,
Prepar'd to make Phillida blest,
And clasping the maid, from an heart full of glee,
The cause of his absence confest: —
High raptures, 'twas told him by masters in love,
Too often repeated, would cloy;
And respites — — he found were the means to improve,
And lengthen the moments of joy.