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Richard Langdon
(1729 - 1803)
Yes, these are the scenes
(S.S.T.B.Kbd.)
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Yes, these are the scenes
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Pub. c.1780 in Langdon's Twelve Glees, Op. 6.
Lyrics: William Shenstone
Yes, these are the scenes where with Iris I strayed,
But short was her sway for so lovely a maid.
In the bloom of her youth to a cloister she run,
In the bloom of her graces too fair for a nun.
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove
So fatal to beauty, so killing to love.
Yes, these are the meadows, the shrubs and the plains,
Once the scene of my pleasures, the scene of my pains.
How many soft moments I spent in this grove,
How fair was my nymph and how fervent my love!
Be still, though, my heart, thine emotion give o'er,
Remember the season of love is no more.
With her, how I strayed amid fountains and bow'rs,
Or loitered behind and collected the flow'rs,
Then breathless with ardour my fair one pursued,
And to think with what kindness my garland she viewed.
But be still, my fond heart, this emotion give o'er;
Fain would'st thou forget thou must love her no more.
Yes, these are the scenes where with Iris I strayed,
But short was her sway for so lovely a maid.
In the bloom of her youth to a cloister she run,
In the bloom of her graces too fair for a nun.
Ill-grounded, no doubt, a devotion must prove
So fatal to beauty, so killing to love.
Yes, these are the meadows, the shrubs and the plains,
Once the scene of my pleasures, the scene of my pains.
How many soft moments I spent in this grove,
How fair was my nymph and how fervent my love!
Be still, though, my heart, thine emotion give o'er,
Remember the season of love is no more.
With her, how I strayed amid fountains and bow'rs,
Or loitered behind and collected the flow'rs,
Then breathless with ardour my fair one pursued,
And to think with what kindness my garland she viewed.
But be still, my fond heart, this emotion give o'er;
Fain would'st thou forget thou must love her no more.