The Voice We Love

Soft is the Zephyr's breezy wing; And balmy is the breath of SPRING, When o'er the silent dewy Vale Its variegated sweets exhale, Stolen from the fresh'ned flower, Glist'ning with an evening shower, From the VI'LET's nectar'd dew— From the ROSE of blushing hue; And from sweet THYME, empurpling all the ground, It gathers rich perfume, and sheds the odours round: Yet say, what sweets can half so fragrant prove, As the soft Breath of those we fondly love?

Go listen to the softest Lute— The most persuasive, magic song, And hear the sweet responsive slute The wild melodious strains prolong;

Attend awhile, the soft impassion'd lyre, That melts the frozen heart, and kindles fond desire. SIMPLICITY, thy steps shall lead, To the simple, verdant mead; For to humble plains belong The Oaten Pipe, and Past'ral Song: Untutor'd in the School of Art, They breathe the impulse of the heart!— Hear the strain, and mark it well— There true LOVE and HONOUR dwell.

Whispering from among the trees, Sighing to the passing wind, Echoing back the evening breeze, The soft Eolian Harp you'll find.

Mark its wild, uncertain measure, This is FANCY's sweetest treasure, There she reigns, and while she sings, Fairy fingers kiss the strings— There the Blue-eyed PLEASURES meet— There is LOVE's most fav'rite seat— There of HOPE, the lov'd retreat, And ev'ry thing that's soft, and every thing that's sweet.

Of all the rapt melodious tones, That Heaven-descended MUSIC owns, Recal the dear, the magic strain, That seem'd to vib'rate on thine heart, And could a transient joy impart, As the wild numbers linger'd thro' the plain.

Then say, fond YOUTH, upon thy pensive breast, Is not this truth indelibly imprest— "No dulcet sounds can so harmonious prove, As the soft accents of the Voice we love?"