Sister of lovelorn poets, Philomel! How many bards in city garret spent, While at their window they with downward eye Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell'd mud, And listen to the drowsy cry of watchmen, (Those hoarse, unfeather'd nightingales of time!) How many wretched bards address thy name, And hers, the full-orb'd queen, that shines above. But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark, Within whose mild moou-mellow'd foliage hid, Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains. O I have listen'd, till my working soul, Waked by those strains to thousand phantasies, Absorb'd, hath ceas'd to listen! Therefore oft I hymn thy name; and with a proud delight Oft will I tell thee, minstrel of the moon, Most musical, most melancholy bird! That all thy soft diversities of tone, Though sweeter far than the delicious airs That vibrate from a white-arm'd lady's harp, What time the languishment of lonely love Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of snow, Are not so sweet, as is the voice of her, My Sara--best beloved of human kind! When breathing the pure soul of tenderness, She thrills me with the husband's promised name! 1794. TO SARA. The stream with languid murmur creeps In Lumin's flowery vale; Beneath the dew the lily weeps, Slow waving to the gale. "Cease, restless gale," it seems to say, "Nor wake me with thy sighing: The honours of my vernal day On rapid wings are flying. "To-morrow shall the traveller come, That erst beheld me blooming, His searching eye shall vainly roam The dreary vale of Lumin." With eager gaze and wetted cheek My wonted haunts along, Thus, lovely maiden, thou shalt seek The youth of simplest song. But I along the breeze will roll The voice of feeble power, And dwell, the moon-beam of thy soul, In slumber's nightly hour. 1794 TO JOSEPH COTTLE, Unboastful Bard! whose verse concise, yet clear, Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense, May your fame fadeless live, as never-sere The ivy wreathes yon oak, whose broad defence Embowers me from noon's sultry influence! For, like that nameless rivulet stealing by, Your modest verse to musing quiet dear, Is rich with tints heaven-borrow'd;--the charm'd eye Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften'd sky. Circling the base of the poetic mount, A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow Its coal-black waters from oblivion's fount: The vapour-poison'd birds, that fly too low, Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go. Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet Beneath the mountain's lofty-frowning brow, Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet, A mead of mildest charm delays th' unlabouring feet.