A Ballad Poem by Henry Baker

A Ballad



On the Bank of a River so deep,
Whose Waters glide silently on,
Sad Rosalind sat down to weep,
For Damon her Lover was gone:
The fairest and faithfullest She,
Of all that tripp'd over the Plains;
But, alas! the most fickle was He,
Among all the Shepherds and Swains.

Down each Cheek ran her Tears in a Stream,
All his Vows are forgotten! she cries,
Regarded no more than a Dream,
Tho' for Him his fond Shepherdess dies:
He's gone, the false Creature is gone,
To deceive some fresh Nymph o' the Plain,
Whose Fate will, like mine, be to moan
The Loss of a perjured Swain.

Beware, you bright Maidens! beware,
If my treacherous Shepherd you meet;
For, alas! he's bewitchingly fair,
When he speaks there's no Musick so sweet:
As the Spring he is blooming and gay,
As the Summer delightsome and kind,
But believe not one word he can say,
For he's false as the wavering Wind.

Foolish Maid! whilst I thought he was true,
I sent up no Look to the Skies;
All the Sunshine or Gloom that I knew,
Was the Gloom or the Shine of his Eyes.
He alone was my Joy and my Care,
I wish'd for no Heaven above;
No Sorrow, no Pain, could I fear,
No Hell but the Loss of his Love.

How fondly endearing was He,
Till I granted whate'er he desir'd?
But, you Virgins! take Warning by me,
For his Flame from that Moment expir'd:
Now I ne'er shall embrace him again,
He ungrateful is flown from my Arms,
Far away o'er the flowery Plain,
And despises these sullyed Charms.

Sure the Gods have some Vengeance in store,
For the Breach of those Vows which he made,
Tho' by him they're remember'd no more
Than the Wretch who by them was betray'd:
But forgive him, you Powers above!
Tho' he's false, bring no Harm on his Head,
But crown him with Beauty and Love,
Long after poor Rosalind's dead.

Thus she mourn'd: What a Scene all around!
The Birds flag their Wings at her Sighs,
The Valleys her Sorrows resound,
And the Stream shews her blubbered Eyes;
All Nature takes Part in her Woe,
A black Cloud o'er the Heaven is spread,
The Winds have forgotten to blow,
And the Willows bend over her Head.

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Henry Baker

Henry Baker

England
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