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COME, Anna! come, the morning dawns,
Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies;
While nature clad in vesture gay,
Our flocks that nip the scanty blade
Upon the moor, shall seek the vale;
And watch the silver clouds above,
Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute,
That with its topes, so softly sweet,
While near the mellow bee shall join,
And then at eve, when silence reigns,
Except when heard the beetle's hum;
And thou to thy soft Jute shalt play
SEASON of general rest, whose solemn still
But speaks to philosophic souls delight;
I sit and taste the holy calm of night.
Yon pensive orb that through the ether sails,
Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame;
And sing the gentle honours of her name;
While Fancy lone o'er me her votary bends,
And pours upon my ear her thrilling song;
The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene :
Till in the lonely tower he spies the light,
Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep;
And raise my mournful eye to Heaven and weep.
Written at Midnight.
Thy pictures are of pain;
I would not weep,
I wish to sleep,
Why dost o'er bed and couch recline ?
Is this thy new delight?
'Tis thine to die,
While o'er the eye,
His bark through lonely seas;
But thou to me
Art misery, So prithee, prithee plume thy wings and from my pillow flee.
Art thou of pleasure born ?
With all thy smiles,
And witching wiles, Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles.
To call the solemn hour;
And restless lie,
eye, And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by.
With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go,
Awakes them not to woe.
Green-ey'd grief, and dull despair;
With even tenor, and with equal breath; Alike through cloudy, and through sunny day,
Then sink in peace to death.