IN AN ALCOVE
35
Every ruder guſt of paſſion
Lull'd with muſic dies away,
Till within the charmed boſom
None but ſoft affections play:
Soft, as when the evening breezes
Gently ſtir the poplar grove;
Brighter than the ſmile of ſummer,
Sweeter than the breath of love.
Thee, th' inchanted Muſe ſhall follow,
Lissy! to the ruſtic cell,
And each careleſs note repeating
Tune them to her charming ſhell.
Not the Muſe who wreath'd with laurel
Solemn ſtalks with tragic gait,
And in clear and lofty viſion
Sees the future births of fate;
Not
