The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker/An Evening Prospect

Come my Susan, quit your chamber,
 * Greet the op'ning bloom of May,

Let us on you hillock clamber,
 * And around the scene survey.

See the sun is now descending,
 * And projects his shadows far,

And the bee her course is bending
 * Homeward thro' the humid air.

Mark the lizard just before us,
 * Singing her unvaried strain,

While the frog, abrupt in chorus,
 * Deepens thro' the marshy plain.

From yon grove the woodcock rises,
 * Mark her progress by her notes,

High in air her wings she poises,
 * Then like lightning down she shoots.

Now the whip-o-well beginning,
 * Clam'rous on a pointed rail,

Drowns the more melodious singing
 * Of the cat-bird, thrush, and quail.

Pensive Echo, from the mountain,
 * Still repeats the sylvan sounds,

And the crocus border'd fountain,
 * With the splendid fly abounds.

There the honeysuckle blooming,
 * Reddens the capricious wave;

Richer sweets---the air perfuming,
 * Spicy Ceylon never gave.

Cast your eyes beyond this meadow,
 * Painted by a hand divine,

And observe the ample shadow
 * Of that solemn ridge of pine.

Here a trickling rill depending,
 * Glitters thro' the artless bow'r;

And the silver dew descending,
 * Doubly radiates every flow'r.

While I speak, the sun is vanish'd,
 * All the gilded clouds are fled,

Music from the groves is banish'd,
 * Noxious vapours round us spread.

Rural toil is now suspended,
 * Sleep invades the peasant's eyes,

Each diurnal task is ended,
 * While soft Luna climbs the skies.

Queen of rest and meditation,
 * Thro' thy medium I adore

Him---the Author of Creation,
 * Infinite, and boundless pow'r.

'Tis he who fills thy urn with glory,
 * Transcript of immortal light;

Lord! my spirit bows before thee,
 * Lost in wonder and delight.