No More Learning

May to adorn the gardens stand,
But, howsoe'er the figures do excel.

The Gods themselves with us do dwell.



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OP MARYELL* 91



* DAMON THE MOWER.

Hark how the Mower Damon sung,
With love of Juliana stung,
While every thing did seem to paint
The scene more fit for his complaint !
Like her fair eyes the day was fair,
But scorching like his amorous care ;
Sharp, like his scythe, his sorrow was,
And withered, like his hopes, the grass.

Oh what unusual heats are here.
Which thus our sun-burned meadows fear !
The grasshopper its pipe gives o'er,
And hamstringed frogs can dance no more,
But in the brook the gi*een frog wades.
And grasshoppers seek out the shades ;
Only the snake, that kept within,
Now glitters in its second skin.
This heat the sun could never raise,
Nor dog-star so inflame the days ;
It from an higher beauty groweth.
Which burns the fields and mower both.



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92 TUB POKMS

Which made the dog, aiid makes the san
Hotter than his own Phaeton ;
Not July causeth tliesc extremes,
But Juliana's scorching beams.

Tell me where I may pass the fires
Of the hot day, or hot desires ;
To what cool cave shall I descend.
Or to what gelid fountain bend ?
Alas !
I look for ease in vain,
\Vhen remedies themselves complain,
No moisture but my tears do rest,
Nor cold but in her icy breast.

How long wilt thou, fair shepherdess,
Esteem me and my presents less ?
To thee the harmless snake I bring.
Disarmed of its teeth and sting ;
To thee chameleons, changing hue,
And oak leaves tipt with honey dew ;
Yet thou ungrateful hast not sought
Nor what they are, nor who them brought.

I am the mower Damon, known
Through all the meadows I have mown.
On me the morn her dew distils
Before her darling daffodils.
And, if at noon my toil me heat,
The sun himself licks off my sweat ;
While going home the evening sweet
In cowslip-water batlis my feet.



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OF MARVELL. 93

What though the piping shepherd stock
The plains with an unnumbered flock.
This scythe of mine discovers wide
More ground than all his sheep do hide.
With this the golden fleece I shear
Of all these closes every year,
And though in wool more poor than they,
Yet I am richer far in hay.

Nor am I so deformed to sight.
If in my scythe I looked right ;
In which I see my picture done.
As in a crescent moon the sun.
The deathless fairies take me ofl
To lead them in their dances soft,
And when I tune myself to sing.
About me they contract their ring.