Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, INSCRIPTION IN A BEAUTIFUL RETREAT CALLED FAIRY BOWER, by HANNAH MORE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

INSCRIPTION IN A BEAUTIFUL RETREAT CALLED FAIRY BOWER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Airy spirits, you who love
Last Line: You each guardian fay shall bless.
Subject(s): Nature


AIRY spirits, you who love
Cooling bower or shady grove,
Streams that murmur as they flow,
Zephyrs bland that softly blow;

Babbling Echo, or the tale
Of the lovelorn nightingale,
Hither, airy spirits, come,
This is your peculiar home.

If you love a verdant glade,
If you love a noontide shade,
Hither, sylphs and fairies, fly,
Unobserved of earthly eye.

Come, and wander every night
By the moonbeam's glimmering light,
And again at early day
Brush the silver dews away.

Mark where first the daisies blow,
Where the bluest violets grow,
Where the sweetest linnet sings,
Where the earliest cowslip springs;

Where the largest acorn lies,
Precious in a fairy's eyes;
Sylphs, though unconfined to place,
Love to fill an acorn's space.

Come, and mark within what bush
Builds the blackbird or the thrush:
Great his joy who first espies,
Greater his, who spares the prize.

Come, and watch the hallowed bower,
Chase the insect from the flower;
Little offices like these
Gentle souls and fairies please.

Mortals! formed of grosser clay,
From our haunts keep far away,
Or, if you should dare appear,
See that you from vice are clear.

Folly's minion, Fashion's fool,
Mad Ambition's restless tool,
Slave of passion, slave of power,
Fly, ah! fly this tranquil bower!

Son of Avarice, soul of frost,
Wretch of Heaven abhorred the most,
Learn to pity others' wants,
Or avoid these hallowed haunts.

Eye, unconscious of a tear,
When Affliction's train appear,
Heart, that never heaved a sigh
For another, come not nigh.

But ye darling sons of Heaven,
Giving freely what was given,
Who, like Providence, dispense
Blessings of benevolence;

You who wipe the tearful eye,
You who stop the rising sigh,
You who well have understood
The luxury of doing good;

Come, ye happy virtuous few,
Open is my bower to you;
You the mossy banks may press,
You each guardian fay shall bless.





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