by: Mark Akenside (1721-1770)

      O-NIGHT retired, the queen of heaven
      With young Endymion stays;
      And now to Hesper it is given
      Awhile to rule the vacant sky,
      Till she shall to her lamp supply
      A stream of brighter rays.
      Propitious send thy golden ray,
      Thou purest light above!
      Let no false flame seduce to stray
      Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm;
      But lead where music's healing charm
      May soothe afflicted love.
      To them, by many a grateful song
      In happier seasons vow'd,
      These lawns, Olympia's haunts, belong:
      Oft by yon silver stream we walk'd,
      Or fix'd, while Philomela talk'd,
      Beneath yon copses stood.
      Nor seldom, where the beechen boughs
      That roofless tower invade,
      We came, while her enchanting Muse
      The radiant moon above us held:
      Till, by a clamorous owl compell'd,
      She fled the solemn shade.
      But hark! I hear her liquid tone!
      Now Hesper guide my feet!
      Down the red marl with moss o'ergrown,
      Through yon wild thicket next the plain,
      Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane
      Which leads to her retreat.
      See the green space: on either hand
      Enlarged it spreads around:
      See, in the midst she takes her stand,
      Where one old oak his awful shade
      Extends o'er half the level mead,
      Enclosed in woods profound.
      Hark! how through many a melting note
      She now prolongs her lays:
      How sweetly down the void they float!
      The breeze their magic path attends;
      The stars shine out; the forest bends;
      The wakeful heifers graze.
      Whoe'er thou art whom chance may bring
      To this sequester'd spot,
      If then the plaintive Siren sing,
      O softly tread beneath her bower
      And think of Heaven's disposing power,
      Of man's uncertain lot.
      O think, o'er all this mortal stage
      What mournful scenes arise:
      What ruin waits on kingly rage;
      How often virtue dwells with woe;
      How many griefs from knowledge flow;
      How swiftly pleasure flies!
      O sacred bird! let me at eve,
      Thus wandering all alone,
      Thy tender counsel oft receive,
      Bear witness to thy pensive airs,
      And pity Nature's common cares,
      Till I forget my own.




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