Wearied out with midnight riot
Mystic Nature slumbers now;
Mouldering bodies rest in quiet,
'Neath their tomb-lids damp and low;
Sad and chill the wind is sighing
Through the reeds that skirt the pool,
All around looks dead or dying,
Wrapt in sorrow, clad in dool.
GLEE.
Roseate colours on heaven's high arch
Are beginning to mix with the blue and the gray,
Sol now commences his wonderful march,
And the forests' wing'd denizens sing from the spray.
Gaily the rose
Is seen to unclose
Each of her leaves to the brightening ray.
Waves on the lake
Rise, sparkle, and break:
O Venus, O Venus, thy shrine is prepar'd,
Far down in the valley o'erhung by the grove;
Where, all the day, Philomel warbles, unscar'd,
Her silver-ton'd ditty of pleasure and love.
Innocence smiling out-carrols the lark,
And the bosom of guilt becomes tranquil again;
Nightmares and visions, the fiends of the dark,
Have abandon'd the blood and have flown from the brain.
Pages:
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110