COME thou, th’ APOLLO who my song inspires,
And warms my breast with more than poets’ fires;
For whom my numbers still are taught to flow,
And every line with artless rapture glow;
Whose praise alone with fond delight I hear,
Whose blame is all the censure that I fear.
Whom can I wish, remote from thee, to please?
Without thee life is but a slow disease.
Tell me, oh! tell, why absent thou so long,
Source of my joy, and author of my song?
When far from thee, with fears and doubts oppress’d,
What sad forebodings fill’d my anxious breast!
How slow the cold unpleasing moments roll!
What cheerless clouds benight my drooping soul!
Come with the powerful magic of thine eye,
And bid those fears and doubts for ever fly:
Dispel and chase those cheerless clouds away,
Thou sun, whose presence only gives me day.
‘Tis thus the wretch, who, freezing near the pole,
Sees six slow months in cold and darkness roll,
With rapture views the blest return of light,
Forgets the horrours of his half-year’s night,
Hails the bright orb, with grateful transport fir’d,
Absent so long, and oft in vain desir’d.
(Elizabeth Scot)
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Based on Topics: Life Poems, Night Poems, Light Poems, Soul Poems, Joy & Excitement Poems, Hope Poems, Fear Poems, Medicine & Medical PoemsBased on Keywords: unpleasing, désir, forebodings, half-year, benight, horrours