Evening, Or The Shepherds Poem by Robert Anderson

Evening, Or The Shepherds



The village bell proclaim'd to Labour rest;
The parting sun reel'd down the saffron'd west;
His mild rays gleaming softly ting'd the wood,
And lightly sported with the silver flood;
Hush'd was the grove that late was heard so gay,
Save from the brake the blackbird's evening lay;
All, all was silent in the winding vale,
Save Eden's murmurs borne along the gale;
When, on a moss--clad bank with poplars crown'd,
Where the pale primrose shed its sweets around,
Love led two youthful shepherds to the shade,
And listning Echo heard the plaints they made.

COLLIN.
Behind yon hill, where stands the aged oak
That seems to scorn the hardy woodman's stroke;
Where the pure streamlet gurgles thro' the dell,
And Peace, Content, and Innocence do dwell;
Where oft at dawn, beneath the willow--tree,
Health, roseate Health, convenes her gay levee;
From Riot safe, and all the false--nam'd joys
Of Vice, that timid Virtue oft destroys,
There Anna blooms, fair as th'half--open'd flow'r
That yields its fragrance from the thick--wov'n bow'r.

EDWY.
Yon distant pines that meet my tear--dimm'd eyes,
Above whose tops the smoky columns rise,
Shield a lone cottage from the bitter north--
There dwells my Emma, artless maid of worth,
Fairer than fairest blossoms on the thorn;
Sweet as the light--wing'd zephyrs of the morn.
E'en now methinks I hear her in the vale
Sing blithe, as homeward tripping with her pail;
And, ah! who knows but some lov'd, happier youth
Hears Emma's vows, nor doubts her love and truth.

COLLIN.
Long ere this bosom felt the pangs of love,
With Anna oft I saunter'd in the grove,
Or pluck'd the fairest wild flow'rs on the heath,
Proud if for her I form'd the gayest wreath.
In spring the linnet's tender brood we sought,
And heard with pleasure each wild warbler's note.
Ah, happy hours! when nought but joy we knew,
And Hope still promis'd what fond Fancy drew!

EDWY.
Full sixteen summers, Collin, have I seen,
And few like me could foot it on the green;
But now of peace bereft by Emma's eyes,
No more the sprightly village dance I prize.
Tho' shepherds all admir'd my artless lays,
That ne'er were tun'd but in my fair one's praise,
The pipe which oft beguil'd the tedious night
Is broke; for music now yields no delight,
Since Emma, heedless of the pensive strain,
Laughs at his love, nor pities Edwy's pain.

COLLIN.
Tho' few the acres, Edwy, I can boast,
And by the murrain half my kine were lost;
Tho' Wealth may scorn and fly my humble cot;
Yet Wealth the peaceful shepherd envies not:
All, all I ask'd my Anna's smile could give--
With her 'twere happiness on earth to live;
But, from her, life seems fraught with every care,
For absence only adds to keen despair.
Still active Fancy fondly loves to trace
Her charms attractive and her matchless face.
Sweet to the lark the first appraoch of morn;
Sweet to the ploughman fields of rising corn;
Sweet is the woodbine to th'industrious bee;
But sweeter far is Anna's smile to me.

EDWY.
As late upon yon osier'd bank I stood,
My image viewing in the chrystal flood,
Alas! I cried, can Emma prove untrue!
Then sighing bade the weary world adieu.
But Reason soon assum'd her wonted sway,
And from the dang'rous brink I turn'd away,
Vowing no more to think of Emma's charms--
Still tyrant Love this panting bosom warms.
Tho' oft I strive to triumph o'er my pain,
Soon, soon, alas! the smart returns again.

COLLIN.
A lambkin late, the fav'rite of my fair,
Ah, envied lot! my Anna's constant care,
As browsing where yon oak nods o'er the steep,
Fell from the precipice into the deep;
Sudden I plung'd amid the chrystal tide,
And with her tender youngling gain'd the side:
Rejoic'd the trembling wand'rer she caress'd,
While I, unheeded, many a sigh repress'd.

EDWY.
In vain I seek my Emma in the bower,
Where oft was spent the happy noon--tide hour;
Each woodbine seems with me to droop its head,
And say, the sportive hours of love are fled;
Silence now reigns where Mirth once lov'd to dwell,
And each carv'd tree some faithless vow doth tell:
Oft on her much--lov'd name I fondly gaze--
Ah! rude memorial of life's joyous days!

COLLIN.
In vain around me cheerful linnets sing;
Unheeded now the blooming flow'rets spring:
To the dark dell in pensive mood I fly,
Where nought but Echo hears my rending sigh.
Ah! soon some bard, whose strains can well impart
A tale of sadness to the lover's heart,
Shall weep to tell the cause of Collin's woe,
As pointing to the stone where I'm laid low.

EDWY.
Night bids us quick depart, my mournful friend,
For all around her chilling dews descend:
Soon as bright Sol to--morrow's course hath run,
And Evening tells the swain his task is done,
Let's hither fly--but now, spite of our woes,
Seek--what the love--lorn shepherd seldom knows.

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