Ye fickle troop of Morpheus' train,
Then will you, to the proud and vain,
From me, fantastic, wing your flight,
T' adorn the dream of false delight?
But now, seen in MONIMIA'S air,
Can you assume a form less fair,
Some idle Beauty's wish supply,
The mimic triumphs of her eye ?
Grant all to me this live-long night,
Let charms detain the rising light;
For this one night my liv'ries wear,
And I absolve you for the year.
What time your poppy-crowned God Sends his truth-telling scouts abroad, Ere yet the cock to mattins rings, And the lark, with mounting wings, The simple village swain has warn'd To shake of sleep by labour earn'd ; Or on the rose's silken hem, Aurora weeps her earliest gem; Or, beneath the op'ning dawn, Smiles the fair-extended lawn;
When in the soft-encircled shade
Ye find reclin'd the gentle Maid,
Each busy motion laid to rest,
And all compos'd her peaceful breast:
Swift paint the fair internal scene,
The phantom-labours of your reign;
The living imagʼry adorn
With all the limnings of the morn,
With all the treasures Nature keeps
Conceal'd below the forming deeps;
Or dress'd in the rich waving pride,
That covers the green mountain's side,
Or blooms beneath the am'rous gale
In the wide-embosom'd vale.
Let pow'rful Music too essay
The magic of her hidden lay:
While each harsh thought away shall fly
Down the full stream of harmony,
Compassion mild shall fill their place,
Each gentle minister of grace,
Pity, that often melts to Love
Let weeping Pity, kind improve,
The soften'd heart, prepar'd to take
Whate'er impressions Love shall make.
Oh! in that kind, that secret hour,
When Hate, when Anger have no pow'r ;
When sighing Love, mild simple boy,
Courtship sweet, and tender joy,
Alone possess the fair-one's heart;
Let me then, Fancy, bear my part.
Oh Goddess! how I long t'appear; The hour of dear success draws near: See where the crouding Shadows wait; Haste and unfold the iv'ry gate: Ye gracious forms, employ your aid,
Come in my anxious look array'd,
Come Love, come Hymen, at my pray'r
Led by blythe Hope, ye decent pair
By mutual confidence combin'd
As erst in sleep I saw you join'd.
Fill my eyes with heart-swell'd tears,
Fill my breast with heart-born fears,
Half-utter'd vows and half-suppress'd,
Part look'd, and only wish'd the rest;
Make sighs, and speaking sorrows prove,
Suffering much, how much I love;
Make the Muses lyre complain,
Strung by me in warbled strain ;
Let the melodious numbers flow
Pow'rful of a Lover's woe,
Till, by the tender Orphean art,
I through her ear shall gain her heart.
Now, Fancy, now the fit is o'er;
I feel my sorrows vex no more:
But when condemn'd again to mourn,
Fancy, to my aid return.
O PARENT of each lovely Muse,
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.
O Nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare,
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,
Waving in thy snowy hand
An all-commanding magic wand,
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow,
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow,
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey
Through air, and over earth and sea,
While the vast various landscape lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes.
O lover of the desart, hail!
Say, in what deep and pathless vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's side,
'Mid fall of waters you reside,
'Mid broken rocks a rugged scene,
With green and grassy dales between,
'Mid forests dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke, Where never human art appear'd,
Nor ev'n one straw-roof'd cott was rear'd,
Where NATURE seems to sit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne;
Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell,
To thy unknown sequester'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,
And on whose top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her nest,
Each evening warbling thee to rest :
There lay me by the haunted stream,
Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,
In converse while methinks I rove
With SPENSER through a fairy grove ;
'Till suddenly awoke, I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear,
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd
By the sweetly-soothing sound!
Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes through the yellow mead,
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