Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, COLIN'S COMPLAINT, by NICHOLAS ROWE


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COLIN'S COMPLAINT, by             Poem Explanation     Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Despairing beside a clear stream
Last Line: His ghost shall glide over the green.
Subject(s): Love - Unrequited


DESPAIRING beside a clear stream
A shepherd forsaken was laid;
And while a false nymph was his theme,
A willow supported his head;
The wind that blew over the plain
To his sighs with a sigh did reply;
And the brook in return to his pain
Ran mournfully murmuring by.

Alas, silly swain that I was!
Thus sadly complaining he cried,
When first I beheld that fair face,
'Twere better by far had I died.
She talk'd, and I bless'd the dear tongue;
When she smil'd twas a pleasure too great;
I listen'd and cried when she sung,
Was nightingale ever so sweet?

How foolish was I to believe
She could dote on so lowly a clown,
Or that her fond heart would not grieve,
To forsake the fine folk of the town?
To think that a beauty so gay,
So kind and so constant would prove;
Or go clad like our maidens in gray,
Or live in a cottage on love?

What though I have skill to complain,
Though the Muses my temples have crown'd;
What though when they hear my soft strain,
The virgins sit weeping around.
Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel resign;
Thy false one inclines to a swain,
Whose music is sweeter than thine.

And you my companions so dear,
Who sorrow to see me betray'd,
Whatever I suffer, forbear,
Forbear to accuse the false maid.
Though through the wide world I should range,
'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly;
'Twas hers to be false and to change,
'Tis mine to be constant and die.

If while my hard fate I sustain,
In her breast any pity is found,
Let her come with the nymphs of the plain,
And see me laid low in the ground.
The last humble boon that I crave
Is to shade me with Cypress and Yew;
And when she looks down on my grave,
Let her own that her shepherd was true.

Then to her new love let her go,
And deck her in golden array,
Be finest at every fine show,
And frolic it all the long day;
While Colin, forgotten and gone,
No more shall be talk'd of, or seen,
Unless when beneath the pale moon,
His ghost shall glide over the green.





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