Mark Akenside Poems

I.
O rustic herald of the spring,
At length in yonder woody vale
Fast by the brook I hear thee sing;
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Ye powers unseen, to whom, the bards of Greece
Erected altars; ye who to the mind
More lofty views unfold, and prompt the heart
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Whoe'er thou art whose path in summer lies
Through yonder village, turn thee where the grove
Of branching oaks a rural palace old
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I
The radiant ruler of the year
At length his wintry goal attains;
Soon to reverse the long career,
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To me, whom in their lays the shepherds call
Actæa, daughter of the neighbouring stream,
This cave belongs. The fig-tree and the vine,
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Such was old Chaucer. such the placid mien
Of him who first with harmony inform'd
The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt
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Approach in silence. 'tis no vulgar tale
Which I, the Dryad of this hoary oak,
Pronounce to mortal ears. The second age
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If, yet regardful of your native land,
Old Shakespeare's tongue you deign to understand,
Lo, from the blissful bowers where heaven rewards
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I.
Thou silent power, whose welcome sway
Charms every anxious thought away;
In whose divine oblivion drown'd,
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I.
Indeed, my Phædria, if to find
That wealth can female wishes gain
Had e'er disturb'd your thoughtful mind,
...