C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Pastoral Ballad

SINCE Phyllis vouchsafed me a look,

I never once dreamt of my vine:

May I lose both my pipe and my crook,

If I knew of a kid that was mine!

I prized every hour that went by,

Beyond all that had pleased me before;

But now they are past, and I sigh;

And I grieve that I prize them no more.

But why do I languish in vain;

Why wander thus pensively here?

Oh! why did I come from the plain

Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?

They tell me my favorite maid,

The pride of that valley, is flown:

Alas! where with her I have strayed,

I could wander with pleasure alone.

When forced the fair nymph to forego,

What anguish I felt at my heart!

Yet I thought—but it might not be so—

’Twas with pain that she saw me depart.

She gazed as I slowly withdrew,—

My path I could hardly discern:

So sweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return.

The pilgrim that journeys all day

To visit some far distant shrine,

If he bear but a relic away

Is happy, nor heard to repine.

Thus widely removed from the fair

Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,—

Soft Hope is the relic I bear,

And my solace wherever I go.