O Shalum cease, nor vainly try to move
The heart of Hilpa, to receive thy love.
These praises of my form I well could spare,
Thou know’st me rich, and therefore call’st me fair.
For say, dissembler, does my beauty fire
Thy faithful breast, and raise this soft desire:
Or is it on my wealth thy fancy feeds,
My yellow fields, soft shades, and verdant meads?
Do not the bleating of my numerous flocks
Make a glad eccho on thy lonely rocks?
Can my faint beauties Shalum’s bosom warm?
Ah no! my large possessions make the charm.
What tho’ thy tow’ring forests strike my eyes
With awful pleasure, and my soul surprise;
Tho’ edg’d with clouds, thy waving trees are seen,
And shade thy walks with an eternal green;
Tho’ from thy Tirzah spicy breezes flow,
And shed ambrosial fragrance all below:
Yet these but please the sense, nor can prevail
Above the solid riches of the vale.
I know thee, Shalum, happier, wiser far,
Thou art, than the frail sons of Adam are.
Among the lofty cedars, thy abode,
In knowledge blest, already half a God.
Thou mark’st the seasons of the changing year,
Skill’d in the influence of each ruling star.
To thee the difference of each soil is known,
And all earth’s various secrets are thy own.
A soul like thine has beauty power to move;
Say, canst thou feel the pleasing pangs of love?
Ah, no! pursue me not, nor hurt my peace,
This artful strain of dangerous flattery cease.
May bounteous nature all thy labours aid;
May’st thou add wood to wood, and shade to shade:
But tempt not Hilpa to renounce her groves,
The silent, soft recess, her fancy loves,
With wedded cares to interupt thy joy,
And the lone sweets of solitude destroy.