A poem by Alexander Pope (1688-1744) , the greatest English poet of “Augustan” or Georgian period
A Shepherd’s Boy (he seeks no better name)
Led forth his flocks along the silver Thame,
Where dancing sun-beams n the waters play’d,
And verdant alders form’d a quiv’ring shade.
Soft as he mourn’d, the streams forgot to flow,
The flocks around a dumb compassion show,
The Naiads wept in ev’ry wat’ry bow’r,
And Jove consented in a silent show’r.
Accept, O Garth, the Muse’s early lays,
That adds this wreath of Ivy to thy Bays;
Hear what from Love unpractis’d hearts endure,
From Love, the sole disease thou canst not cure.
Ye shady beeches, and ye cooling streams,
Defence from Phoebus, not from Cupid’s beams,
To you I mourn, nor to the deaf I sing,
The woods shall answer, and their echo ring.
The gills and rocks attend my doleful lay,
Why art thou prouder and more hard than they?
The bleating sheep with my complaints agree,
They parch’d with heat, and I inflam’d by thee.
The sultry Sirius burns the thirsty plains,
While in thy heart eternal winter reigns.
Where stray ye, Muses, in what lawn or grove,
While your Alexis pines in hopeless love?
In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides,
Or else where Cam his winding vales divides?
As in the crystal spring I view my face,
Fresh rising blushes paint the wat’ry glass;
But since those graces please thy eyes no more,
I shun the fountains which I sought before.
Once I was skill’d in ev’ry herb that grew,
And ev’ry plant that drinks the morning dew;
Ah wretched shepherd, what avails thy art,
To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart!
Let other swains attend the rural care,
Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces shear:
But nigh yon’ mountain let me tune my lays,
Embrace my Love, and bind my brows with bays.
That flute is mine which Colin’s tuneful breath
Inspir’d when living, and bequeath’d in death;
He said; Alexis, take this pipe, the same
That taught the groves my Rosalinda’s name:
But now the reeds shall hang on yonder tree,
For ever silent, since despis’d by thee.
Oh! were I made by some transforming pow’r
The captive bird that sings within thy bow’r!
Then might my voice thy list’ning ears employ,
And I those kisses he receives, enjoy.
And yet my numbers please the rural throng,
Rough Satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the song:
The Nymphs, forsaking ev’ry cave and spring,
Their early fruit, and milk-white turtles bring;
Each am’rous nymph prefers her gifts in vain,
On you their gifts are all bestow’d again.
For you the swains the fairest flow’rs design,
And in one garland all their beauties join;
Accept the wreath which you deserve alone,
In whom all beauties are compris’d in one.
See what delights in sylvan scenes appear!
Descending Gods have found Elysium here.
In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray’d,
And chaste Diana haunts the forest shade.
Come lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours,
When swains from shearing seek their nightly bow’rs;
When weary reapers quit the sultry field,
And crown’d with corn, their thanks to Ceres yield.
This harmless grove no lurking viper hides,
But in my breast the serpent Love abides.
Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew,
But your Alexis knows no sweets but you.
Oh deign to visit our forsaken seats,
The mossy fountains, and the green retreats!
Where-e’er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade,
Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade,
Where-e’er you tread, the blushing flow’rs shall rise,
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.
Oh! How I long with you to pass my days,
Invoke the muses, and resound your praise;
Your praise the birds shall chant in ev’ry grove,
And winds shall waft it to the pow’rs above.
But wou’d you sing, and rival Orpheus’ strain,
The wond’ring forests soon shou’d dance again,
The moving mountains hear the pow’rful call,
And headlong streams hang list’ning in their fall!
But see, the shepherds shun the noon-day heat,
The lowing herds to murm’ring brooks retreat,
To closer shades the panting flocks remove,
Ye Gods! And is there no relief for Love?
But soon the sun with milder rays descends
To the cool ocean, where his journey ends;
On me Love’s fiercer flames for every prey,
By night he scorches, as he burns by day.
A few random poems:
- Dead On Arrival by Preethi Saravanakumar
- You Know Where You Did Despise poem – Alexander Pope
- Old Man Poet by Raj Arumugam
- ON THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE AND UNCERTAINTY OF RICHES by Abraham Cowley
- Praying Drunk poem – Andrew Hudgins poems | Poems and Poetry
- I Stood With the Dead by Siegfried Sassoon
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- Apologetic Postscript Of A Year Later by Robert Louis Stevenson
- The King Of Sweden by William Wordsworth
- Book Tenth {Residence in France continued] by William Wordsworth
- The Window
- The Ghost’s Leavetaking by Sylvia Plath
- The Sacred Tree
- The Garden by Tammy L. Ames
- Old Homeless Man by Walter William Safar
External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- Fallen Majesty by William Butler Yeats
- Ephemera by William Butler Yeats
- Ego Dominus Tuus by William Butler Yeats
- Easter, 1916 by William Butler Yeats
- Down By The Salley Gardens by William Butler Yeats
- Demon And Beast by William Butler Yeats
- Dedication To A Book Of Stories Selected From The Irish Novelists by William Butler Yeats
- Death by William Butler Yeats
- Cuchulan’s Fight With The Sea by William Butler Yeats
- Cuchulain Comforted by William Butler Yeats
- Crazy Jane Talks With The Bishop by William Butler Yeats
- Crazy Jane Reproved by William Butler Yeats
- Crazy Jane On The Mountain by William Butler Yeats
- Crazy Jane On The Day Of Judgment by William Butler Yeats
- Crazy Jane On God by William Butler Yeats
- Crazy Jane Grown Old Looks At The Dancers by William Butler Yeats
- Crazy Jane And Jack The Journeyman by William Butler Yeats
- Coole Park, 1929 by William Butler Yeats
- Consolation by William Butler Yeats
- Come Gather Round Me, Parnellites by William Butler Yeats
More external links (open in a new tab):
Doska or the Board – write anything
Search engines:
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Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees
Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.
Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works
Alexander Pope (1688 – 1744) was a a post-Restoration English poet and satirist. He is a poet of the (British) Augustan period and one of its greatest artistic exponents.