Faught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest car, Like thy own solemn springs, Thy springs and dying gales : O nymph reserved! while now the bright-haired Sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed. 20 ODE TO EVENING. Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, To breathe some softened strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, As musing slow, I hail Thy genial love return; For when thy folding star arising shows The fragrant hours, and elves, Who slept in buds the day, And many a nymph who wreathes her brow with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still, The pensive pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me roye some wild and heathy scene, Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams. Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires, The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, Beneath thy lingering light; While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, And rudely rends thy robes; So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own, And love thy favourite name! COLLINS. |