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And oft in solitude I rove,
To hear the bird of eve complain;
When seated in the hallow'd grove,
She pours her melancholy strain,
In soothing tones that wake the tear,
To sorrow and to fancy dear.
I love the placid moonlight hour,
The lustre of the shadowy ray;
'Tis then I seek the dewy bower,
And tune the wild expressive lay;
While echo from the woods around,
Prolongs the softly dying sound.
And oft, in some arcadian vale,
I touch my harp of mellow note;
Then sweetly rising on the gale,
I hear celestial music float;
And dulcet measures faintly close,
Till all is silence and repose.
Then fays and fairy elves advance,
To hear the magic of my song;
And mingle in the sportive dance,
And trip with sylphid grace along;
While the pensive ray serene,
Trembles thro' the foliage green.
