Classic Poem

A MIDST the wild and dreary dells,
The distant echo-giving bells,
The bending mountain's head;
Whilst Evening, moving through the sky,
Over the object and the eye,
Her pitchy robes doth spread;

There, gently moving through the vale,
Bending before the blustering gale,
Fell apparitions glide;
Whilst roaring rivers echo round,
The drear reverberating sound
Runs through the mountain side;

Then steal I softly to the grove,
And, singing of the nymph I love,
Sigh out my sad complaint;
To paint the tortures of my mind,
Where can the Muses numbers find?
Ah! numbers are too faint!

Ah! Hoyland, empress of my heart,
When will thy breast admit the dart,
And own a mutual flame?
When, wandering in the myrtle groves,
Shall mutual pleasures seal our loves,
Pleasures without a name?

Thou greatest beauty of the sex,
When will the little god perplex
The mansions of thy breast?
When wilt thou own a flame as pure
As that seraphic souls endure,
And make thy Baker blest?

O! haste to give my passion ease,
And bid the perturbation cease
That harrows up my soul!
The joy such happiness to find
Would make the functions of my mind
In peace and love to roll.