Page:1808 Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne.pdf/110



And oft in solitude I rove, To hear the bird of eve complain; When seated in the hallow'd grove, She pours her melancholy strain, In soothing tones that wake the tear, To sorrow and to fancy dear.

I love the placid moonlight hour, The lustre of the shadowy ray; 'Tis then I seek the dewy bower, And tune the wild expressive lay; While echo from the woods around, Prolongs the softly dying sound.

And oft, in some arcadian vale, I touch my harp of mellow note; Then sweetly rising on the gale, I hear celestial music float; And dulcet measures faintly close, Till all is silence and repose.

Then fays and fairy elves advance, To hear the magic of my song; And mingle in the sportive dance, And trip with sylphid grace along; While the pensive ray serene, Trembles thro' the foliage green.