Sonnet.

SONNET.

THE nymphs and the shepherds now mourn, That lost is the pride of their grove; The cypress o'ershades the sweet rose, No more seen is the flow'r which they love.

It's leaves were most spotless and pure, Its colours were vivid and gay; Its fragrance it lent to the year, To the shepherds it brighten'd the day.

The bee would oft make her abode, Where sweetness so much did excel; Poor insect! she seeks it in vain, And drooping returns to her cell.

New graces each minute display'd, No time did its beauty decay: When, growing the pride of the year, 'Twas suddenly hurried away.

Such a flower is innocent youth, So transient! so frail in it's bloom; So pleasing mild Coridon was, As suddenly pass'd to his tomb.