Can aught of artful music sooth the soul
To so serene a temper, as the flight
Of songsters in the grove? or can thy strain,
(Tho' there Enchantment strike the magic chord)
Oh matchless Purcell! with so wild a charm
Transport the mind, as when at dusk of eve
From the hoar battlement the lone owl's cry
Pierces the awful silence, and the fall'n
And time-worn hollow towers convey the sound
To the near wood, where in the devious path
Retired Fancy wanders, on her ear
The faint sound murmurs, strait the distant low
Of unyok'd heifer, strait the cuckow's note
She hears, while oft the roving Zephyr's tread
Rustling alarms her, and the measur'd step
Of the slow steer, who brushes thro' the thicket
To seek his food, beats duly regular.
As on he wanders, thro' the opening bower
He sees the pale moon rising; clouds on clouds
Pil'd mountainous awhile obstruct her beam,
Till labouring thence she lifts her silver brow,
And pours her full ray on the ivy'd steeple.
And hark its bell now tolls the minute knell,
And thro' the churchway path the surplic'd priest
Walks slowly forward, while the snowy pall
Covering the relicks of some love lorn virgin,
Passes with aweful pace along the glade.