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O plaintive, murmuring reed, begin thy strain;
Unloose that heavenly tongue,
Interpreter divine of pain;
Utter thy voice, the sister of my song.
Thee in the silver waters growing,
Arcadian pan, strange whispers blowing
Into thy delicate stops, did teach
A language lovelier than speech.
O plaintive, murmuring reed, begin thy strain;
O plaintive, murmuring reed.
Nisa
to Mopsus is decreed,
The moonwhite Nisa to a swarthy swain.
What love-gift now shall Hope not bring?
Election dwells no more with beauty’s king.
The wild weed now has wed the rose,
Now ivy on the bramble grows;
Too happy lover, fill the lamp of bliss!
Too happy lover, drunk with Nisa’s kiss!
For thee pale Cynthia leaves her golden car,
For thee from Tempe stoops the white and evening star.
O plaintive, murmuring reed, renew thy strain;
O solace anguish yet again.
I
thought Love soft as velvet sleep,
Sweeter than dews nocturnal breezes weep,
Cool
as water in a murmuring pass
And shy as violets in the vernal grass,
But hard as Nisa’s heart is he
And salt as the unharvestable sea.
O plaintive, murmuring reed, renew thy strain.
One morn she came; her mouth
Breathing the odours of the south,
With happy eyes and heaving bosom fain.
She asked for fruit long-stored in autumn’s hold.
These
gave I; from the branch dislodged I threw
Sweet-hearted
apples in their age of gold
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And pears divine for taste and hue.
And
one I saw, should all the rest excel;
But
error led my plucking hand astray
And
with a sudden sweet dismay
My heart into her apron fell.
O plaintive, murmuring reed, renew thy strain.
My bleeding heart awhile
She
kept and bloomed upon its pain,
Then slighted as a broken thing and vile.
Now
Mopsus in his unblest arms,
Mopsus enfolds her heavenlier charms,
Mopsus to whom the Muse averse
Refused her gracious secrets to rehearse.
O plaintive, murmuring reed, breathe yet thy strain.
Ye glades, your bliss I grudge you not,
Nor
would I that my grief profane
Your sacred summer with intruding thought.
Yet since I will no more behold
Your glorious beauty stained with gold
From shadows of her hair, nor by well
Made
naked of their sylvan dress
The breasts, the limbs I never shall possess,
Therefore,
O mother Arethuse, farewell.
For me no place abides
By the green verge of thy belovèd tides.
To Lethe let my footsteps go
And wailing waters in the realms below,
Where happier song is none than moaning pain
Nor any lovelier Syrinx than the weed.
Child
of the lisping waters, hush thy stain,
O
murmuring, plaintive reed.
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