Written on a Summer Evening.
Now sinks the sun behind the western hills,
And balmy Eve assumes her placid sway,
Soft whispers murmur from the tinkling rills,
And gentle zephyrs on their surface play.
The low of herds—the wood-dove’s am’rous coo,
Alone are wafted on the passing gale;
Calm silence bids my sighs revert to you,
Angelic Sylvia! “flow’ret of the vale.”
Must I alone eternally deplore,
And sigh, unheeded, to th’ unconscious wind?
Must this lost heart enjoy sweet rest no more,
And e’er despair a soft return to find?
Cupid, invidious scourge of human ties!
Oft strikes alone the poor despairing swain,
Bids him exhaust his days in hopeless sighs,
And waste his nights in tears—but all in vain.
But say, is such my lot?—sweet Sylvia, say,
Must I for ever with this anguish burn?
Still waste the dreary night and live-long day,
And sigh, despairing of a fond return?
© Charles Tompson