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ODE TO EVENING.
-IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
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,
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
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,
VOL. II. E
That from the mountain's side
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
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!
BY PETER PINDAR.
. L/HLOE, prithee, why so coy?
Where's the danger of a kiss?
Budding, if they blush with pleasures,
If a sin t* enjoy their treasures,
VANITY OF FAME.
BY THE REV. H. MOORE.
AS vapours from the marsh's miry bed
Then melting down in rain
The world's fair peace confound,
Where is each boasted Favourite of Fame,