Night. the First Elegy

Now Cynthia shone serene with silver light, And Silence reign'd sole monarch of the night; Now scarce a Zephyr fann'd the placid sky, But all was hush'd—save Philomel and I.

Sweet, tuneful bird, who shun'st the noise of day, Darkling to chant thy melancholy lay, If it be love that makes thee loath repose, Then let me mingle sympathetic woes.

But if thy mate, regardless of thy pain, Still hears thee sing, and hears thee sing in vain; How shall my ruder voice e'er hope to move, Or charm my gentle Delia into love?

Here let me nightly wander in the grove To court th' idea of my absent love, With fancy's eye to gaze upon her charms, And press the lovely phantom to my arms.

Bring, bring my Delia's image to my mind, And for a moment let me think her kind: Oh! 'tis in vain—imagination dies, The fancied Delia, like the real, flies.

Oh! I am sick, oppress'd with tender grief, Bring, gentle Love, oh! bring me soft relief; Quick, on the wings of expectation, fly, Oh! help thy votary, help me, or I die.

The night's far spent, and soon the morn will rise, Come, gentle sleep, and seal these weeping eyes; Thou balm of nature sink into my breast, Shut every sense—O lull my soul to rest!

In soft repose the gentle Delia's laid, Sweet be the slumbers of the sleeping maid, Let no rude thought the peaceful charm destroy, But let her dream of love, and dream of joy.

Let some bright vision then my form assume, With charms delusive and etherial bloom; Then let the phantom kneel before the fair, And tell her how I love, and how despair.

For oh! I think, could gentle Delia know But half my passion, or but half my woe, She'd surely pity, tho' she'd not approve, And tender pity is a-kin to love.