Nor canst thou boast the many-tinted robe
Worn by thy beauteous herald, dewy Eve,

Thine is a veil of grey,

Meet for the cloister'd maid.

Thou nurse of saddening thoughts, prolong thy stay, Let me adore thee still! Eve's glowing grace,

Night's fire-embroider'd vest,

Alike displease my eye;

For I am Sorrow's child, and thy cold showers,
Thy mist-encircled forms, thy doubtful shapes,
Wake a responsive chord
Within my troubled soul.

For oh! to me futurity appears

Wrapt in a chilling veil of glooms and mists,

Nor seems one tint or star

To deck her furrow'd brow,

But slowly cross her path, imperfect shapes
Of danger, sorrow, frenzy, and despair,
Force their uneasy way,

And pale my cold, sunk cheek.

But see

-the unwelcome moon unveils her head,

(Those hours are gone in which I hail'd her beams) Distinctness spreads around,

And mimic day appears.

I loathe the cheerful sight, as still my fate,
O Twilight! bears a hue resembling thine;
And envy-struck, I shun

The scene I cannot share.

I'll to my couch, yet not alas to rest;
By artificial gloom I'll suit my soul,
And e'en from pity hide

My dim and sleepless eyes.

AMELIA OPIE. 1792.

LINES

WRITTEN IN THE 16th CENTURY.

For aye be hynce ye vayne delyghts
So short as seeme the guiltie nyghtes
Yatte men forweare inne folie!
This lowlie world hath nothyng swote
Hadde mortals onlie wytte to know yt
But halie melancholie.

Then welcome armes yatte folded lye, From heavie breste the long-drawn sye,

The purses of the browe,

The loke yrooted to the growne,

The tong ychaynde withouten sowne,
Unguided steps and slowe.

The moonlight walk in pathless grove
Where aye pale passion yearnes to rove,
The well-hede kele and still.

The midnyghte howre when all the fowles
Are housde and hushte save battes and owles
Yatte screche theyre bodynges shrille.

The fadyng clink of dystaunt bell
Whose knell the tale of dethe doth tell,
The grone of partyng ghoste,

These sownes aleyne the sowle doth feede
Yatte of a higher world hath hede,

Forlettying erthlie loste.

PARODIED IN THE 18th CENTURY.

Hither frolics and delights!

Day is dying, and by nights

I

my years would number; What have earth and time to give But the when that pleasures live

Toil and trouble slumber?

Welcome arms asunder thrown,
Lifted chin, and locks adown

The forehead sleek and free,
Crimson cheek and glancing eye,
Lips where smiles aye lurking lie,
The tiptoe tread of glee.

The taper'd hall that music haunts,
Where sparkles wine, where beauty pants
And feast and dance abound;

The midnight hour when sages sour
Are hush'd abed or hous'd in bower,
But wit runs giggling round.

The clink of an unheeded clock,
That vainly gives a threefold knock,
The toast that glows the breast,

The jolly-chorused roundelay,
The curtain that keeps out the day,
Let angels have the rest.