Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/140

 Runs out the rambling dale, young sat, Pensive, and pierc'd with love's delightful pangs. There to the stream that down the distant rocks Hoarse-murmuring fell, and plaintive breeze that play'd Among the bending willows, falsely he Of cruelty complain'd. She felt his flame; but deep within her breast, In bashful coyness, or in maiden pride, The soft return conceal'd; save when it stole In side-long glances from her downcast eye, Or from her swelling soul in stifled sighs. Touch'd by the scene, no stranger to his vows, He fram'd a melting lay, to try her heart; And, if an infant passion struggled there, To call that passion forth. Thrice happy swain! A lucky chance, that oft decides the fate Of mighty monarchs, then decided thine. For lo! conducted by the laughing Loves This cool retreat his sought: Warm in her cheek the sultry season glow'd And, rob'd in loose array, she came to bathe Her fervent limbs in the refreshing stream. What shall he do? In sweet confusion lost, And dubious flutterings, he a while remain'd: A pure ingenuous elegance of soul, A delicate refinement, known to few, Perplex'd his breast, and urg'd him to retire: But love forbade. Ye prudes in virtue, say, Say, ye severest, what would you have done? Meantime, this fairer nymph than ever blest Arcadian stream, with timid eye around The banks surveying, strip'd her beauteous limbs, To taste the lucid coolness of the flood. Ah then! not Paris on the piny top Of Ida panted stronger, when aside The