The Hawthorn Bower - Poem by John Cunningham
Palemnon, in the hawthorn bower,
With fond impatience lay,
He counted every anxious hour
That stretch'd the tedious day.
The rosy dawn, Pastora nam'd,
And vow'd that she'd be kind;
But ah! the setting sun proclaim'd
That woman's vows are-wind.
The fickle sex, the boy defy'd!
And swore, in terms profane,
That beauty in her brightest pride
Might sue to him in vain.
When Delia from the neighb'ring glade
Appear'd in all her charms,
Each angry vow Palemon made
Was lost in Delia's arms.
The lovers had not long reclin'd
Before Pastora came;
'Inconstancy,' she cry'd, 'I find
In every heart's the same.
'For young Alexis sigh'd and press'd,
With such bewitching power,
I quite forgot the wishing guest
That waited in the bower.'
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