REMAINS OF ROBERT BLOOMFIELD (1824)

ÆOLUS

I am not disposed to court the powers of this poet-made god—except on a sultry summer’s day, when not a breath of air is in motion; at such a moment one might exclaim:—

Oh, breeze, where sleep’st thou? Come, oh come,

This languor of my frame dispel;

Arise, thy own loved harp is dumb;

Arise, and bid thy chorus swell.

Stop not, but breathe with fresh’ning power5

O’er full-blown roses in your way;

Wave the laburnum’s pendent flower;—

Yet stop not ’midst their sweets to play.

Sweep o’er the hay-field and the grove;

Thy own harp waits thee, come along;10

Whose soft vibrations whisper love,

And fancied choirs of heavenly song.

Thanks, charming zephyr.—Hark! That tone!

Be true, sweet harp; hush all but thee;

Perform thy task untouch’d, alone,15

And pour thy tide of harmony.