DID you not hear the hideous groan, The shrieks, and heavy moan That spread themselves o'er all the pensive plain; And rent the breast of many a tender swain? 'Twas for Amintas, dead and gone. Sing, ye forsaken shepherds, sing @3His@1 praise In careless melancholy lays, Lend @3Him@1 a little doleful breath: Poor Amintas! cruel Death! 'Twas @3Thou@1 couldst make dead words to live, Thou that dull numbers couldst inspire With charming voice and tuneful lyre, That life to all, but to @3Thyself@1, couldst give; Why couldst @3Thou@1 not @3Thy@1 wondrous art bequeath? Poor Amintas! cruel Death! Sing, pious shepherds, while you may, Before th' approaches of the Fatal Day: For you yourselves that sing this mournful song, Alas! ere it be long, Shall, like Amintas, breathless be, Though more forgotten in the grave than @3He@1. |