Page:1808 Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne.pdf/76



! why did thy rude hand molest The sacred quiet of my nest? No more I rise on rapture's wing, The ditties of my love to sing. Restore me to the peaceful vale, To wander with the southern gale; Restore me to the woodland scene, Romantic glen, or forest green; To hail the Heaven's ethereal blue, To drink the freshness of the dew; Now, while my artless carols flow, Let pity in thy bosom glow. For this, at morn's inspiring hour, I'll sing in thy luxuriant bow'r: To thee the breeze of airy sigh Shall waft my thrilling melody; Thy soul the cadence wild shall meet, The song of gratitude is sweet. And at the pensive close of day, When landscape-colours fade away, Ah! then the robin's mellow note, To thee in dying tone shall float;—