WHEN fair Ismene to the grove retires,
And joins her warbling accents to the lyre’s;
How sweet th’ enchanting sounds! the melting strains,
With pleasing raptures fill our swelling veins.
The eager ear with ravishment attends,
The song our soul in extacy suspends:
Soft we approach, and awful silence keep,
(A silence more profound than that of sleep.)
We fear to move, nay e’en to breathe we fear,
Lest one soft accent should escape our ear:
All things are hush’d; the silent trees recline
Their rev’rend heads, to hear the lays divine.
The streams, that ceas’d to purl, now creep along
Unheard, charm’d with the music of her song:
The list’ning birds stoop on the bending wing,
And hov’ring stay to learn of her to sing.
Say, ye blest angels, whose harmonious lays
Unwearied sing eternal hymns of praise,
Can heav’n itself Ismene’s notes improve,
When she’s translated to the choirs above?