Yes — I have heard, when silence rul'd the hour, While placid sail'd the silver Moon alone, Lorn Philomela tune her even-song, And exercise her sweetly-varied power Of melody: but in the Muses bower, Tun'd soft to woe, or rais'd sublime and strong, Notes more harmonious flow from SEWARD'S tongue, And on the soul, diviner influence shower. Not Petrarch, in his "love-devoted vale," So sweetly hymn'd the mistress of his soul, As Aona sings, when tender thoughts assail, And sorrowing fondness proves its high controul. And, when thy beauties, Nature, she pourtrays, The raptur'd bosom swells with silent praise.
