Though awfully silent, and shaggy, and rude, I am charm'd with the peace ye afford; Your shades are a temple where none will intrude, The abode of my lover and Lord. I am sick of thy splendour, O fountain of day, Ye forests, that yield me my sweetest repose, To you I securely and boldly disclose Here, sweetly forgetting and wholly forgot Here, wandering in scenes that are sacred to night, And often the sun has spent much of his light While a mantle of darkness envelops the sphere, To me the dark hours are all equally dear, Here I and the beasts of the deserts agree, They grudge me my natural right to be free, Though little is found in this dreary abode My spirit is soothed by the presence of God, Ye desolate scenes, to your solitude led, My life I in praises employ, And scarce know the source of the tears that I shed, There's nothing I seem to have skill to discern, Love reigns in my bosom, I constantly burn, I live, yet I seem to myself to be dead, I am nourish'd without knowing how I am fed, Oh love! who in darkness art pleased to abide, That these contrarieties only reside In the soul that is chosen of thee. Ah send me not back to the race of mankind, For where, in the crowds I have left, shall I find Here let me, though fix'd in a desert, be free; Though lost to the world, if in union with thee, ELEGY I. TO CHARLES DEODATI, AT length, my friend, the far-sent letters come, |