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ODE TO EVENING.

BY COLLINS.

-IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,

Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales;

O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat, With short shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing;

Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne-in heedless hum:

Now teach me, maid compos'd,

To breathe some soften'd strain,

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening May not unseemly with its stillness suit, [vale,

As, musing slow, I hail

Thy genial lov'd return!

For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp,

The fragrant hours, and elves

Who slept in buds the day,

And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with

sedge, And sheds the freshening dew; and, lovelier still,

The pensive pleasures sweet

Prepare thy shadowy car:

Then let me rove 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,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,

VOL. II. E

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That from the mountain's side
Views wilds, and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all

Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
. Beneath thy lingering light:

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,

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!

A MADRIGAL.

BY PETER PINDAR.

TO CHLOE.

. L/HLOE, prithee, why so coy?

Where's the danger of a kiss?
Loaded are thy lips with joy;
Wherefore then deny the bliss?

Budding, if they blush with pleasures,
Freely, freely let me take 'em:

If a sin t* enjoy their treasures,
Nature was a fool to make 'em.

r

THE

VANITY OF FAME.

BY THE REV. H. MOORE.

AS vapours from the marsh's miry bed
Ascend, and, gath'ring on the mountain head,
Spread their long train in splendid pomp on high;
Now o'er the vales in awful grandeur low'r;
Mow flashing, thund'ring down the trembling sky,
Rive the tough oak, or dash th' aspiring tow'r;

Then melting down in rain
Drop to their base original again;
Thus earth-born Heroes, the proud sons of praise,
Awhile on Fortune's airy summit blaze,

The world's fair peace confound,
And deal dismay and death, and ruin round;
Then back to earth these Idols of an hour
Sink on a sudden, and arc known no more.

Where is each boasted Favourite of Fame,
Whose wide'-expanded name

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