The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker/An Evening Prospect

by Ann Eliza Bleecker

Come my Susan, quit your chamber,
Greet the op'ning bloom of May,
Let us on you hillock clamber,
And around the scene survey.

See the sun is now descending,
And projects his shadows far,
And the bee her course is bending
Homeward thro' the humid air.

Mark the lizard just before us,
Singing her unvaried strain,
While the frog, abrupt in chorus,
Deepens thro' the marshy plain.

From yon grove the woodcock rises,
Mark her progress by her notes,
High in air her wings she poises,
Then like lightning down she shoots.

Now the whip-o-well beginning,
Clam'rous on a pointed rail,
Drowns the more melodious singing
Of the cat-bird, thrush, and quail.

Pensive Echo, from the mountain,
Still repeats the sylvan sounds,
And the crocus border'd fountain,
With the splendid fly abounds.

There the honeysuckle blooming,
Reddens the capricious wave;
Richer sweets---the air perfuming,
Spicy Ceylon never gave.

Cast your eyes beyond this meadow,
Painted by a hand divine,
And observe the ample shadow
Of that solemn ridge of pine.

Here a trickling rill depending,
Glitters thro' the artless bow'r;
And the silver dew descending,
Doubly radiates every flow'r.

While I speak, the sun is vanish'd,
All the gilded clouds are fled,
Music from the groves is banish'd,
Noxious vapours round us spread.

Rural toil is now suspended,
Sleep invades the peasant's eyes,
Each diurnal task is ended,
While soft Luna climbs the skies.

Queen of rest and meditation,
Thro' thy medium I adore
Him---the Author of Creation,
Infinite, and boundless pow'r.

'Tis he who fills thy urn with glory,
Transcript of immortal light;
Lord! my spirit bows before thee,
Lost in wonder and delight.