And his unfuff'ring kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless fong Burft from the groves! and when the restless day Sweetest of birds! fweet Philomela, charm 75 The lift'ning fhades, and teach the night His praife. 80 The long-refounding voice, oft-breaking clear, Or if you rather chuse the rural fhade, Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, 85 90 95 SHOULD fate command me to the fartheft verge 100 Of the green earth, to distant barb'rous climes, Rivers unknown to fong; where first the fun Gilds Indian mountains, or his fetting beam In the void waste as in the city full; And where HE vital breathes there must be joy. And Better thence again, and Better still, Myfelf in Him, in LIGHT INEFFABLE! Come then, expreffive filence, mufe нis praise. 105 110 115 THE END OF VOL. I. |