THE sun was sunk beneath the hill,
The western cloud was lin’d with gold:
Clear was the sky, the wind was still,
The flocks were penn’d within the fold;
When in the silence of the grove,
Poor Damon thus despair’d of love.
Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose,
From the hard rock or oozy beech?
Who from each weed that barren grows,
Expects the grape or downy peach?
With equal faith may hope to find
The truth of love in womankind.
No flocks have I, or fleecy care,
No fields that wave with golden grain,
No pastures green, or gardens fair,
A woman’s venal heart to gain,
Then all in vain my sighs must prove,
Whose whole estate, alas! is love.
How wretched is the faithful youth,
Since womens hearts are bought and sold?
They ask no vows of sacred truth;
When e’er they sigh, they sigh to gold.
Gold can the frowns of scorn remove; –
Thus I am scorn’d, – who have but love.
To buy the gems of India’s coast,
What wealth, what riches would suffice?
Yet India’s shore could never boast,
The lustre of thy rival eyes:
For there the world too cheap must prove;
Can I then buy? – who have but love.
Then, Mary, since nor gems, nor ore
Can with thy brighter self compare,
Be just, as fair, and value more,
Than gems or ore, a heart sincere:
Let treasure meaner beauties prove;
Who pays thy worth, must pay in love.
– Authors Unknown.