MARK AKENSIDE

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 ; 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, 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: 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,

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.

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