ODE ON EOLUS'S HARP. ETHEREAL race, inhabitants of air, Who hymn your God amid the secret grove; Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair, And raise majestic strains, or melt in love. Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid! Who died of love, these sweet complainings part! But, hark! that strain was of a graver tone: In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes. Such was the song which Zion's children sung, When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint ; And to such sadly-solemn notes are strung Angelic harps, to soothe a dying saint. Methinks I hear the full celestial choir, Through heaven's high dome their awful anthem raise; Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire To swell the lofty hymn from praise to praise. Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind, Who, as wild Fancy prompts you, touch the string, 1 'Sacred bard: ' Jeremiah. ODE. O NIGHTINGALE, best poet of the grove, Oh, lend that strain, sweet Nightingale, to me! 'Tis mine, alas! to mourn my wretched fate: You, happy birds! by Nature's simple laws And love and song is all your pleasing care: But we, vain slaves of interest and of pride, Dare not be bless'd, lest envious tongues should blame; And hence in vain I languish for my bride: Oh, mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless flame ! THE END. BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. |