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Poem	Come, soft Aeolian harp, while zephyr plays Along the meek vibration of thy strings, As twilight's hand her modest mantle brings, Blending with sober grey, the western blaze! O! prompt my Phaon's dreams with tend'rest lays, Ere night o'er shade thee with its humid wings, While the lorn Philomel his sorrow sings In leafy cradle, red with parting rays! Slow let thy dulcet tones on ether glide, So steals the murmur of the am'rous dove; The mazy legions swarm on ev'ry side, To lulling sounds the sunny people move! Let not the wise their little world deride, The smallest sting can wound the breast of Love.
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