Classic Poem

A SONG.

How calm is the eve, and how clear is the sky,
How awful yon shadowy grove!
While Luna's pale crescent, just beams on the eye,
And Philomel wails her lost love;

The bleating of lambs, from the thyme-tusted hill,
The lowing of herds thro' the vale,
The fountain that gurgles, and falls from the rill,
And warbles and winds thro' the dale —

Yield pleasures more solid than courts can bestow,
Yield transports more pure and refined,
Make us feel, what we are, little monarchs below,
For peace and contentment design'd.