MARK AKENSIDE
To them, by many a grateful song
In happier seasons vow'd, These lawns, Olympiads haunts, belong: Oft by yon silver stream we walk'd, Or fix'd, while Philomela talk'd,
Beneath yon copses stood.
Nor seldom, where the beechen boughs
That roofless tower invade, We came, while her enchanting Muse The radiant moon above us held. Till, by a clamorous owl compell'd,
She fled the solemn shade.
But hark' I hear her liquid tone'
Now Hcspcr guide my feet' Down the red marl with moss o'ergrown, Through yon wild thicket next the plain, Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane Which leads to her retreat.
See the green space: on either hand
Enlarged it spreads around. Sec, in the midst she takes her stand, Where one old oak his awful shade Extends o'er half the level mead,
Enclosed in woods profound.
Hark' how through many a melting note
She now prolongs her lays: How sweetly down the void they float' The breeze their magic path attends; The stars shine out; the forest bends;
The wakeful heifers graze.
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