Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Mark Akenside. 17211770463. The Nightingale
TO-NIGHT retired, the queen of heaven | |
With young Endymion stays; | |
And now to Hesper it is given | |
Awhile to rule the vacant sky, | |
Till she shall to her lamp supply | 5 |
A stream of brighter rays. | |
Propitious send thy golden ray, | |
Thou purest light above! | |
Let no false flame seduce to stray | |
Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm; | 10 |
But lead where music’s healing charm | |
May soothe afflicted love. | |
To them, by many a grateful song | |
In happier seasons vow’d, | |
These lawns, Olympia’s haunts, belong: | 15 |
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, | 20 |
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! | 25 |
Now Hesper 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. | 30 |
See the green space: on either hand | |
Enlarged it spreads around: | |
See, in the midst she takes her stand, | |
Where one old oak his awful shade | |
Extends o’er half the level mead, | 35 |
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; | 40 |
The stars shine out; the forest bends; | |
The wakeful heifers graze. | |
Whoe’er thou art whom chance may bring | |
To this sequester’d spot, | |
If then the plaintive Siren sing, | 45 |
O softly tread beneath her bower | |
And think of Heaven’s disposing power, | |
Of man’s uncertain lot. | |
O think, o’er all this mortal stage | |
What mournful scenes arise: | 50 |
What ruin waits on kingly rage; | |
How often virtue dwells with woe; | |
How many griefs from knowledge flow; | |
How swiftly pleasure flies! | |
O sacred bird! let me at eve, | 55 |
Thus wandering all alone, | |
Thy tender counsel oft receive, | |
Bear witness to thy pensive airs, | |
And pity Nature’s common cares, | |
Till I forget my own. | 60 |