Meek Twilight! soften the declining day,
And bring the hour my pensive spirit loves;
When, o'er the mountain flow descends the ray
That gives to silence the deserted groves.
Ah, let the happy court the morning still,
When, in her blooming loveliness array'd,
She bids fresh beauty light the vale, or hill,
And rapture warble in the vocal shade.
Sweet is the odour of the morning's flower,
And rich in melody her accents rise;
Yet dearer to my soul the shadowy hour,
At which her blossoms close, her music dies--
For then, while languid nature droops her head,
She wakes the tear 'tis luxury to shed.
TO
SENSIBILITY.
In _Sensibility's_ lov'd praise
I tune my trembling reed;
And seek to deck her shrine with bays,
On which my heart must bleed!
No cold exemption from her pain
I ever wish'd to know;
Cheer'd with her transport, I sustain
Without complaint her woe.
Above whate'er content can give,
Above the charm of ease,
The restless hopes, and fears that live
With her, have power to please.
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