Page:Memoir and poems of Phillis Wheatley, a native African and a slave.djvu/153

Rh The night-hawk now, with his nocturnal tone,

Wakes up, and all the Owls begin to moan,

Or heave from dreary vales their dismal song,

Whilst in the air the meteors play along.

At length the silver queen begins to rise,

And spread her glowing mantle in the skies,

And from the smiling chambers of the east,

Invites the eye to her resplendent feast.

What joy is this unto the rustic swain,

Who from the mount surveys the moon-lit plain;

Who with the spirit of a dauntless Pan

Controls his fleecy train and leads the van;

Or pensive, muses on the water's side,

Which purling doth thro' green meanders glide,

With watchful care he broods his heart away

'Till night is swallowed in the flood of day.

The meteors cease to play, that mov'd so fleet,

And spectres from the murky groves retreat,

The prowling wolf withdraws, which howl'd so bold,

And bleating flocks may venture from the fold.

The night-hawk's din deserts the shepherd's ear,

Succeeded by the huntsman's trumpet clear,

O come Diana, start the morning chase

Thou ancient goddess of the hunting race.

Aurora's smiles adorn the mountain's brow,

The peasant hums delighted at his plough,

And lo, the dairy maid salutes her bounteous cow.