A pastoral ballad in eleven anapestic quatrains, signed "Q. Q., Yarmouth, May 16." Colin, a swain of delicate sensibilities and a classical education, has not quite, entirely, given up hope of attracting the attention of the fair Eliza: "I'll walk in the dead of the night, | Endymion shall light me along; | I'll walk when avoiding the light, | Sad Nyctimene utters her song."
No longer I'll pipe on the plain,
No more will I tune to the Nine:
Ah me! how unhappy a swain!
Eliza can never be mine.
In fancy how once was I blest,
But, alas! the delusion is o'er;
Tho' lost is the hope I possest,
I never shall cease to adore.
She's fair as the opening rose;
She's sweet as the jessamine's flow'r;
She's soft as the woodbine which grows,
Encircling the sweet-scented bow'r.
Oftimes when reclin'd in the shade
I've sung in soft notes to her praise,
How blest! if a smile from the maid
Has seem'd to approve of my lays.
For her I once rear'd the soft bow'r,
For her was alone the design;
Within plac'd each redolent flow'r,
Around bade the jessamine twine.
No longer reviv'd by her smile,
The jessamine droops to the ground;
Its verdure has fled from the soil,
The flow'rets are fading around.
I'll walk in the dead of the night,
Endymion shall light me along;
I'll walk when avoiding the light,
Sad Nyctimene utters her song.
Oh! give me the desolate cave,
Whence is banish'd the face of the day;
Oh! give me the maddening wave,
When tempests their fury display.
Oh! give me where fancy has made
The seat of the phantom and sprite;
Oh! give me the gloom of the shade,
Entrancing the horrors of night.
But whilst I'm thus sadly inclin'd,
Thus wildly I utter my care;
Sweet hope repossesses my mind,
Dispelling the gloom of despair.
May some whisp'ring angel impart
The passion which reigns in my breast;
And, oh! is she heave but her heart,
Then Colin shall truly be blest.