![]() | The Poems Of Mark Akenside | ![]() |
ODE XV. TO THE EVENING-STAR.
I
To-night retir'd the queen of heavenWith young Endymion stays:
And now to Hesper is it given
Awhile to rule the vacant sky,
Till she shall to her lamp supply
A stream of brighter rays.
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II
O Hesper, while the starry throngWith awe thy path surrounds,
Oh listen to my suppliant song,
If haply now the vocal sphere
Can suffer thy delighted ear
To stoop to mortal sounds.
III
So may the bridegroom's genial strainThee still invoke to shine:
So may the bride's unmarried train
To Hymen chaunt their flattering vow,
Still that his lucky torch may glow
With lustre pure as thine.
IV
Far other vows must i preferTo thy indulgent power.
Alass, but now i paid my tear
On fair Olympia's virgin tomb:
And lo, from thence, in quest i roam
Of Philomela's bower.
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V
Propitious send thy golden ray,Thou purest light above:
Let no false flame seduce to stray
Where gulph or steep lie hid for harm:
But lead where music's healing charm
May sooth afflicted love.
VI
To them, by many a grateful songIn happier seasons vow'd,
These lawns, Olympia's haunt, belong:
Oft by yon silver stream we walk'd,
Or fix'd, while Philomela talk'd,
Beneath yon copses stood.
VII
Nor seldom, where the beachen boughsThat roofless tower invade,
We came while her inchanting Muse
The radiant moon above us held:
Till by a clamorous owl compell'd
She fled the solemn shade.
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VIII
But hark; i hear her liquid tone.Now, Hesper, guide my feet
Down the red marle with moss o'ergrown,
Through yon wild thicket next the plain,
Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane
Which leads to her retreat.
IX
See the green space: on either handInlarg'd 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
Inclos'd in woods profound.
X
Hark, how through many a melting noteShe 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 gaze.
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XI
Whoe'er thou art whom chance may bringTo this sequester'd spot,
If then the plaintive Syren sing,
Oh softly tread beneath her bower,
And think of heaven's disposing power,
Of man's uncertain lot.
XII
Oh 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.
XIII
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.
![]() | The Poems Of Mark Akenside | ![]() |