To the green margin of a lonely wood,
Whose pendent shades o'erlook'd a silver flood,
Young Damon came, unknowing where he stray'd,
Full of the image of his beauteous maid:
His flock far off, unfed, untended lay,
To ev'ry savage a defenceless prey;
No sense of int'rest could their master move,
And ev'ry care seem'd trifling now but Love.
Awhile in pensive silence he remain'd,
But tho' his voice was mute his looks complain'd;
At length the thoughts within his bosom pent,
Forc'd his unwilling tongue to give them vent.