ST is yon shepherd, on the turf reclined,
Who on the varied clouds which float
Lies idly gazing--while his vacant
Pours out some tale antique of rural love!
Ah! he has never felt the pangs that
Th' indignant spirit, when with selfish
Friends, on whose faith the trusting heart relied,
Unkindly shun th' imploring eye of woe!
The ills they ought to soothe with taunts deride,
And laugh at tears themselves have forced to flow.
Nor his rude bosom those fine feelings melt,
Children of Sentiment and Knowledge born,
Through whom each shaft with cruel force is felt,
Empoison'd by deceit--or barb'd with scorn.
