Independent Journal, Or, The General Advertiser

THE RECLUSE LOVER.

YE wild waving woods that now cloathing your
shade,
Now wantonly parting, dispport with the beam;
Thou river, whose current refreshes the mead,
And you, ye rude ruins, that shadow his stream.
Few locks, that hang white on the side of yon hill,
Ye herds, who beneath crop the grass of the
vale,
Ye that chirp in the hedge, or skim light on the
rill,
Or fluttering give your gay wing to the gale;
Sweet inspirers of thought, and thou sweetest,
thou Dove,
Whose silver plumes shine thro' the boughs of
the tree,
Escap'd from the cage, and away from thy love,
All silent and sad, a companion to me.
Ah! why, as I gaze on the landscape around,
Why suddenly starts the fond tear to my eye!
Tho' smiling each object, and cheerful each
sound,
Why steals from my bosom the sorrowing sigh.
Enchant the fair scenes, 'till enraptur'd I find
That sweetest oblivion the Muses bestow,
Till the sun-shine that glides shall heighten my
mind,
And my fancy forget that my heart has a woe!
So free may ye flourish, fair scenes, as ye rise,
So still be your charms by simplicity grac'd,
In native luxuriance be pleas'd and surprize,
Nor by folly be fashion'd, nor tortur'd by taste.
So, when the glad seasons their blessings shall
yield,
And Ceres enrich you, and Flora adorn,
May the labourer's laugh echo loud in the field,
And the breeze whisper oft thro' the mellow-
ing corn.
And O, when the evening's mild glories decline,
And fade from the sky, the last blushes of light,
Unclouded and cloudless, may bright Cynthia
shine,
E'er yet you are hid by the envious night.
And whilst her fair form glitters bright in the
flood,
And sheds on its bosom a tremulous ray.
Tips the tops of the hill, gilds the gloom of the
wood,
And softens each beauty that glar'd in the day.
A night, such as this, following Philomel's
voice,
As he sings her sweet song to the list'ning air
Sequester'd from crowds, or by chance or by
choice,
To this bower should come gentle spirit repair.
Whilst tenderness breathes in the nightingale's
Strain;
To tenderness tun'd, as delighted they stay,
This verse may they see, if this verse should re-
main;
Nor heedlessly turn from a wanderer's lay.
Perhaps they will deem him neglected, forlorn,
As they mark how mournful his numbers all
flow;
Of fortune the sport, or of beauty the scorn-
Conjecture his sorrows, and pity his woe.
Ah! no, let them envy his happier fate,
Let them envy the youth that to Harriet is
dear;
Nor wish he was wealthy, nor wish he was great,
Whose poverty proves that her love is sincere!