Page:The Works of Alexander Pope (1717).djvu/318

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SAPHO to PHAON.
I find the shades that veil'd our joys before,But, Phaon gone, those shades delight no more.Here the press'd herbs with bending tops betrayWere oft' entwin'd in am'rous folds we lay;I kiss that earth which once was press'd by you,And all with tears the with'ring herbs bedew.For thee the fading trees appear to mourn,And birds defer their songs till thy return:Night shades the groves, and all in silence lie,All, but the mournful Philomel and I:With mournful Philomel I join my strain,Of Tereus she, of Phaon I complain.A spring there is, whose silver waters showClear as a glass, the shining sands below;A flow'ry Lotos spreads its arms above,Shades all the banks, and seems itself a grove;Eternal greens the mossy margin grace,Watch'd by the sylvan Genius of the place.Here as I lay, and swell'd with tears the flood,Before my sight a watry virgin stood,

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