The Dying Kid

Optima quaeque dies miseris mortalibus aevi Prima fugit-… ~Virg. Imitation. Ah! wretched mortals we! - our brightest days On fleetest pinions fly. A tear bedews my Delia's eye, To think yon playful kid must die; From crystal spring, and flowery mead, Must, in his prime of life, recede! Erewhile, in sportive circles round She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound! From rock to rock pursue his way, And on the fearful margin play. Pleased on his various freaks to dwell, She saw him climb my rustic cell; Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright, And seem'd all ravish'd at the sight: She tells with what delight he stood, To trace his features in the flood: Then skipp'd aloof with quaint amaze, And then drew near again to gaze. She tells me how with eager speed He flew to hear my vocal reed; And how, with critic face profound, And steadfast ear, devour'd the sound. His every frolic, light as air, Deserves the gentle Delia's care; And tears bedew her tender eye, To think the playful kid must die. But knows my Delia, timely wise, How soon this blameless era flies; While violence and craft succeed, Unfair design, and ruthless deed? Soon would the vine his wounds deplore, And yield her purple gifts no more; Ah! soon erased from every grove Were Delia's name, and Strephon's love. No more those bowers might Strephon see, Where first he fondly gazed on thee; No more those beds of flowerets find, Which for thy charming brows he twined. Each wayward passion soon would tear His bosom, now so void of care; And, when they left his ebbing vein, What, but insipid age, remain? Then mourn not the decrees of Fate, That gave his life so short a date; And I will join my tenderest sighs, To think that youth so swiftly flies!