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INVOCATION TO SOLITUDE AND THE MUSE.
COME, silent nymph! who lov'st the evening shade,
Whose gentle step scarce prints the fallen dew,
Whose still small voice, ah, holy musing maid!
Would charm my early hours when life was new;
Oh, come with her who on thy arm reclines,
With angel features, and an eye of fire,
Amid the loose folds of whose garment shines,
But half conceal'd, a sweet and magic lyre.
Her form as light as aspen when it sighs,
And answers to the breeze that swells and dies,
When on the cloud she soars, or skims the main,
Or stoops that mortal ear may hear her strain.
Oft has she gently paus'd with mute caress,
That I, with infant hand, her strings might press;
Her soften'd aspect beaming looks of love,
As fearful o'er the lyre my hand would move;
And all unknown the cause, I breath'd the sigh,
And soft unconscious tears o'erflow'd the eye,
While round me pour'd the solemn minstrelsy.
Oft leading fancy's train she sports with youth,
Or lights the sage's eye with rays of truth;
