MARK AKENSIDE

Propitious send thy golden ray,

Thou purest light above ! Let no false flame seduce to stray Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm ; 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 : 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, 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 !

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.

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,

Enclosed in woods profound.

�� �