Anne Kingsmill Finch, Countess of Winchilsea - A Nocturnal Reverie lyrics

In such a night, when every louder wind Is to its distant cavern safe confined; And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings, And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings; Or from some tree, famed for the owl's delight, She, hollowing clear, directs the wand'rer right: In such a night, when pa**ing clouds give place, Or thinly veil the heav'ns' mysterious face; When in some river, overhung with green, The waving moon and the trembling leaves are seen; When freshened gra** now bears itself upright, And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite, Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble-rose, And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows; Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes, Yet checkers still with red the dusky brakes When scatter'd glow-worms, but in twilight fine, Shew trivial beauties, watch their hour to shine; Whilst Salisb'ry stands the test of every light, In perfect charms, and perfect virtue bright: When odors, which declined repelling day, Through temp'rate air uninterrupted stray; When darkened groves their softest shadows wear, And falling waters we distinctly hear; When through the gloom more venerable shows Some ancient fabric, awful in repose, While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal, And swelling hayco*ks thicken up the vale: When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads, Comes slowly grazing through th' adjoining meads, Whose stealing pace, and lengthened shade we fear, Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear: When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food, And unmolested kine rechew the cud; When curlews cry beneath the village walls, And to her straggling brood the partridge calls; Their shortlived jubilee the creatures keep, Which but endures, whilst tyrant man does sleep; When a sedate content the spirit feels, And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals; But silent musings urge the mind to seek Something, too high for syllables to speak; Till the free soul to a composedness charmed, Finding the elements of rage disarmed, O'er all below a solemn quiet grown, Joys in th' inferior world, and thinks it like her own: In such a night let me abroad remain, Till morning breaks, and all's confused again; Our cares, our toils, our clamors are renewed, Or pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued.