The rural lyre a volume of poems ... by Ann Yearsley |
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EXTEMPORE ON HEARING A GENTLEMAN PLAY A HYMN ON HIS FLUTE, THURSDAY JULY THE THIRTY-FIRST,
ELEVEN AT NIGHT, MDCCXCV. NEAR THE AUTHOR's WINDOW AT BRISTOL WELLS. |
 | The rural lyre |  |
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EXTEMPORE ON HEARING A GENTLEMAN PLAY A HYMN ON HIS FLUTE, THURSDAY JULY THE THIRTY-FIRST, ELEVEN AT NIGHT, MDCCXCV. NEAR THE AUTHOR's WINDOW AT BRISTOL WELLS.
The moon now from old Avon's stream
Withdraws each pale and trembling beam
That cheers the lonely night;
And as she leaves the weary flood,
Dark grow the vales, dark grows yon wood,
E'en Fancy takes her flight.
Withdraws each pale and trembling beam
That cheers the lonely night;
And as she leaves the weary flood,
Dark grow the vales, dark grows yon wood,
E'en Fancy takes her flight.
Yet Philomel, that shuns the morn,
Sits list'ning on the dewy thorn,
And half forgets her woe:
Contemns her own melodious note,
While o'er the wave the numbers float,
That from thy breathing flow.
Sits list'ning on the dewy thorn,
And half forgets her woe:
Contemns her own melodious note,
While o'er the wave the numbers float,
That from thy breathing flow.
111
O! ------ there has been an hour,
When Melody, enchanting pow'r!
Lur'd all my cares to rest:
My spirit drank her melting lay,
In sacred rapture dy'd away,
And trembled to be blest.
When Melody, enchanting pow'r!
Lur'd all my cares to rest:
My spirit drank her melting lay,
In sacred rapture dy'd away,
And trembled to be blest.
Those hours are flown!—The transport's o'er!
Yet Memory from her heav'nly store
My lasting grief beguiles:
Amid the vigils of the night,
Thus tun'd by thee to fine delight,
O'er her pale vision smiles.
Yet Memory from her heav'nly store
My lasting grief beguiles:
Amid the vigils of the night,
Thus tun'd by thee to fine delight,
O'er her pale vision smiles.
A little while—when I may be
Estrang'd from all—forgot by thee—
Prolong th'inspiring strain:
Hark, whisp'ring Angels join my pray'r—
They make thy tranquil mind their care,
And near thee will remain.
Estrang'd from all—forgot by thee—
Prolong th'inspiring strain:
Hark, whisp'ring Angels join my pray'r—
They make thy tranquil mind their care,
And near thee will remain.
112
Ah! pardon me—With sorrow mute,
I take my pen—thy plaintive flute
So charms my thinking soul:
On air my fancy seems to fly,
Spirits I long have mourn'd are nigh,
And worlds beneath me roll.
I take my pen—thy plaintive flute
So charms my thinking soul:
On air my fancy seems to fly,
Spirits I long have mourn'd are nigh,
And worlds beneath me roll.
| The rural lyre | |