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ETHEREAL race, inhabitants of air,

Who hymn your God amid the secret grove; Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair,

And raise majestic strains, or melt in love.

Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid !

With what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart ! Sure, from the hand of some unhappy maid,

Who died of love, these sweet complainings part !

But, hark! that strain was of a graver tone:

On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws; Or he, the sacred bard, 1 who sat alone

In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes.

Such was the song which Zion's children sung,

When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint ; And to such sadly-solemn notes are strung

Angelic harps, to soothe a dying saint.

Methinks I hear the full celestial choir,

Through heaven's high dome their awful anthem raise ; Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire

To swell the lofty hymn from praise to praise.

Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind,

Who, as wild Fancy prompts you, touch the string, Smit with your theme be, in your chorus join'd;

For, till you cease, my Muse forgets to sing.

1 Sacred bard:' Jeremiah.


O NIGHTINGALE, best poet of the grove,

That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to thee, Bless'd in the full possession of thy love :

Oh, lend that strain, sweet Nightingale, to me!

'Tis mine, alas ! to mourn my wretched fate : I love a maid who all


bosom charms, Yet lose my days without this lovely mate ;

Inhuman Fortune keeps her from my arms.

You, happy birds ! by Nature's simple laws

your soft lives, sustain'd by Nature's fare ; You dwell wherever roving Fancy draws,

And love and song is all your pleasing care :

But we, vain slaves of interest and of pride,

Dare not be bless'd, lest envious tongues should blame; And hence in vain I languish for my

bride : Oh, mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless flame!



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