Thespia XXV: Ye Nymphs who tend each blooming grove

Ye Nymphs who tend each blooming grove
Of shady Hants, receive My Fair!
Oh! heed th' intreating voice of Love,
And guard her with peculiar care!
A Worthier Guest Ye never knew,
Ne'er hail'd a Soul of more unspotted hue.

If thus my Thespia tread the plain,
A favourite of the Sylvan Powers,
Or in the friendly, dome remain,
Where glide Life's pure unruffled hours,
Say, will not her reflecting Mind
Oft trace the pleasing scenes She left behind?

It will; awhile Herself She cheats,
And thinks the distant vision near,
With new-raised joy her bosom beats,
But soon it fades, and melts in air.
Wishing the real scenes to spy,
With downcast look, She checks the tender sigh.

From my own thoughts I judge of thine,
The same illusions float around,
But ah! too quickly I resign
Th' ideal form, the ideal sound,
Thy graces, like the Meteor's ray,
Thy voice, like feeble Echo's, dies away.

On Isca's margin green I rove,
Or hurry t'ward the rural Cot,
But unobserved by social Love,
The varied landscape charms Me not;
Only by thee attractive made,
Deck'd with it's beauteous tints of light and shade.

Oh! come Thou Wanderer! Pleasures beam
Now setting, shall again arise,
With Love United, pour it's stream
Of radiance, and adorn the skies.
Come Gentle Wanderer to my heart!
Return, return, my Soul's far dearer part!