Yon shepherd, when the mighty star of day He sees descending to its western bed, And the wide Orient all with shade embrown'd, Takes his old crook, and from the fountain head, Green mead, and beechen bower, pursues his way, Calling, with welcome voice, his flocks around; Then far from human sound, Some desert cave he strows With leaves and verdant boughs, And lays him down, without a thought, to sleep. Ah, cruel Love!--then dost thou bid me keep My idle chase, the airy steps pursuing Of her I ever weep, Who flies me still, my endless toil renewing.
E'en the rude seaman, in some cave confined, Pillows his head, as daylight quits the scene, On the hard deck, with vilest mat o'erspread; And when the Sun in orient wave serene Bathes his resplendent front, and leaves behind Those antique pillars of his boundless bed; Forgetfulness has shed O'er man, and beast, and flower, Her mild restoring power: But my determined grief finds no repose; And every day but aggravates the woes Of that remorseless flood, that, ten long years, Flowing, yet ever flows, Nor know I what can check its ceaseless tears.
What time towards the western skies The sun with parting radiance flies, And other climes gilds with expected light, Some aged pilgrim dame who strays Alone, fatigued, through pathless ways, Hastens her step, and dreads the approach of night Then, the day's journey o'er, she'll steep Her sense awhile in grateful sleep; Forgetting all the pain, and peril past; But I, alas! find no repose, Each sun to me brings added woes, While light's eternal orb rolls from us fast.
When the sun's wheels no longer glow, And hills their lengthen'd shadows throw, The hind collects his tools, and carols gay; Then spreads his board with frugal fare, Such as those homely acorns were, Which all revere, yet casting them away, Let those, who pleasure can enjoy, In cheerfulness their hours employ; While I, of all earth's wretches most unblest, Whether the sun fierce darts his beams, Whether the moon more mildly gleams, Taste no delight, no momentary rest!
When the swain views the star of day Quench in the pillowing waves its ray, And scatter darkness o'er the eastern skies Rising, his custom'd crook he takes, The beech-wood, fountain, plain forsakes, As calmly homeward with his flock he hies Remote from man, then on his bed In cot, or cave, with fresh leaves spread, He courts soft slumber, and suspense from care, While thou, fell Love, bidst me pursue That voice, those footsteps which subdue My soul; yet movest not th' obdurate fair!