Already it calls for my love, To prune the wild branches away. From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, From thickets of roses that blow ! In concert so soft and so clear, As she may not be fond to resign. I have found out a gift for my fair; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear, She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, she averred, Who would rob a poor bird of its young: And I loved her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue. I have heard her with sweetness unfold And she called it the sister of love. Methinks I should love her the more. 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 Can a bosom so gentle remain Unmoved, when her Corydon sighs? Soft scenes of contentment and ease? But where does my Phillida stray? And where are her grots and her bowers? And the face of the valleys as fine; But their love is not equal to mine. EDWARD YOUNG FROM NIGHT THOUGHTS NIGHT I TIRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes; From short (as usual) and disturbed repose, I wake: how happy they, who wake no more! 5 ΙΟ Tumultuous; where my wrecked desponding thought, 10 From wave to wave of fancied misery, At random drove, her helm of reason lost. Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain, (A bitter change!) severer for severe. The day too short for my distress; and night, Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, 15 20 Silence, how dead! and darkness, how profound! Nor eye, nor list'ning ear, an object finds; Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse Of life stood still, and nature made a pause; 25 An awful pause! prophetic of her end. And let her prophecy be soon fulfilled; Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more. Silence and darkness! solemn sisters! twins From ancient night, who nurse the tender thought 30 To reason, and on reason build resolve, (That column of true majesty in man) Assist me: I will thank you in the grave; The grave, your kingdom: there this frame shall fall A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. 35 But what are ye? — Thou, who didst put to flight Primeval silence, when the morning stars, Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball; O Thou, whose word from solid darkness struck That spark, the sun; strike wisdom from my soul; 40 My soul, which flies to Thee, her trust, her treasure, As misers to heir gold, while others rest. Through this opaque of nature, and of soul, Nor less inspire my conduct, than my song; The bell strikes one. We take no note of time 50 55 Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours: Where are they? With the years beyond the flood. 60 How much is to be done? My hopes and fears Look down. On what? a fathomless abyss; Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, |