DAMON and STREPHON. A Pastoral Complaint. Mary Leapor Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T127827 p. 413 K101776.000 Leapor, Mrs. (Mary), 1722-1746. Poems upon several occasions: By Mrs. Leapor of Brackley in Northamptonshire. London printed: and sold by J. Roberts 1748 pp. 18-21. 15,[5],282p. ; 8⁰.

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DAMON and STREPHON . A Pastoral Complaint . Damon . SAY , why these Sighs that in thy Bosom rise ? Why from thy Cheek the wonted Crimson flies ? Why on the Ground are fix'd thy streaming Eyes ? Strephon . Still let this Bosom swell with aking Woe , And from my Eyes the streaming Sorrows flow . But Oh ! the Cause — ( See Clouds are gath'ring round , And Zephyrs wait to catch the mournful Sound ; The sick'ning Trees all shed their blooming Store ) Why wouldst thou hear it ? — Sylvius is no more . Damon . Is Sylvius dead ? — then Phillis rend thy Hair , And blot those Features that were late so fair . Thou Sun , forbear to gild this fatal Day ; Nor you my Lambkins dare to think of Play . Strephon . No more alas ! — no more the tuneful Swain Shall with soft Numbers charm the list'ning Plain . No more his Flute shall greet the dawning Spring ; Nor to his Hand rebound the trembling String . Damon . Ah cruel Death ! wou'd none but Sylvius do ? No meaner Swain amongst the worthy few ? Why didst thou take ( and leave the baser Tribe ) The Flow'r of Shepherds and the Muses Pride ? Strephon . None knew like him the heav'nly Notes to swell , And moral Tales in pleasing Numbers tell . While Sylvius sung , none thought the Day too long ; But all repin'd at the too hasty Song . Damon . Ye solemn Winds that whistle through the Glade , Or rudely bluster in the darker Shade , Go bear our Sorrows to the distant Shore , And tell them Sylvius chears our Plains no more . Strephon . Vain are our Sighs , our Tears as vainly flow , And each sad Bosom swells with fruitless Woe ! As northern Blasts destroy the Autumn Store , So Sylvius fell and shall return no more . Damon . Enough of Sorrow — now your Garlands bring ; Crop all the Beauties of the early Spring ; Around his Tomb these willing Hands shall twine The choicest Briers of sweet Eglantine . Strephon . On his cold Grave a Laurel I bestow , Which late did in my Father's Garden grow : This Wreath Amyntas ask'd to shade her Brow , But to my Sylvius I resign it now . Damon . The pensive Swains shall strike their Bosoms there , And soft-ey'd Virgins drop a gentle Tear : May some good Angel guard the sacred Ground , And Flow'rs unfading shed their Sweets around .