The rural lyre a volume of poems ... by Ann Yearsley |
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SONNET TO THE SAME, WRITTEN AT MORN, ON ST. VINCENT'S ROCK, BRISTOL HOT-WELLS. |
 | The rural lyre |  |
93
SONNET TO THE SAME, WRITTEN AT MORN, ON ST. VINCENT'S ROCK, BRISTOL HOT-WELLS.
The lamp of heaven in her last stage behold;
Salubrious dew yet trickles down the thorn;
The sheep-bell sounds not yet within the fold;
Weary the woodman sleeps, nor dreams 'tis morn.
Whilst on the forehead of the east is seen
One gem of infant light; do those afar,
Who wasted night 'mid gay voluptuous scene,
Healthful with me behold yon morning star?
Can wisdom's vot'ry like yon woodman sleep?
Or breathes he now the fragrance of the plain;
Or musing stray near the tremendous deep?
Or does he, Phœbus, raise thy sacred strain?
Salubrious dew yet trickles down the thorn;
The sheep-bell sounds not yet within the fold;
Weary the woodman sleeps, nor dreams 'tis morn.
Whilst on the forehead of the east is seen
One gem of infant light; do those afar,
Who wasted night 'mid gay voluptuous scene,
Healthful with me behold yon morning star?
Can wisdom's vot'ry like yon woodman sleep?
Or breathes he now the fragrance of the plain;
Or musing stray near the tremendous deep?
Or does he, Phœbus, raise thy sacred strain?
Where'er the child of thought reflects, with me,
Inspire him, tuneful god!—O raise his soul to thee!
Inspire him, tuneful god!—O raise his soul to thee!
| The rural lyre | |