O DE

ΤΟ

EVENING.

BY MR. WILLIAM COLLINS.

IF ought of oaten ftop, or paftoral fong,
May hope, chafte Eve, to footh thy modest ear,
Like thy own folemn fprings,

Thy fprings, and dying gales,

O Nymph referv'd, while now the bright-hair'd fun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hufh'd, fave where the weak-ey'd bat, With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds

His fmall but fullen horn,

As oft he rifes 'midft the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim born in heedless hum;
Now teach me, Maid compos'd,

To breathe some soften'd strain,

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Whose numbers stealing thro' thy dark'ning vale,

May not unfeemly with it's stillness fuit,
As mufing flow, I hail

Thy genial lov'd return!

For when thy folding star arising fhews

His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who flept in flow'rs the day,

And many a Nymph who wreaths her brows with fedge,

And sheds the frefh'ning dew, and lovelier ftill,
The Penfive Pleasures fweet

Prepare thy fhadowy car.

Then lead, calm Vot'refs, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile, Or up-land fallows grey

Reflect it's laft cool gleam.

But when chill bluft'ring winds, or driving rain,
Forbid my willing feet; be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's fide,

Views wilds, and fwelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-difcover'd fpires,
And hears their fimple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil.

While spring shall pour his fhow'rs, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing treffes, meekeft Eve!

While Summer loves to sport,

Beneath thy ling'ring light :

While fallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
Or Winter yelling thro' the troublous air,
Affrights thy fhrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes; So long, fure-found beneath thy fylvan shed, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rofe-lip'd Health, Thy gentleft influence own, And hymn thy fav'rite name!

G

I SI S.

A N

E L

E

GY.

WRITTEN BY MR. MASON, OF CAMBRIDGE, 1748.

FA

AR from her hallow'd grot, where mildly bright The pointed crystals fhot their trembling light, From dripping mofs where sparkling dew-drops fell, Where coral glow'd, where twin'd the wreathed shell, Pale ISIS lay; a willow's lowly shade

Spread it's thin foliage o'er the pensive maid;
Clos'd was her eye, and from her heaving breast
In careless folds loose flow'd her zoneless veft;
While down her neck her vagrant treffes flow,
In all the awful negligence of woe;
Her urn fuftain'd her arm, that sculptur'd vase
Where Vulcan's art had lavish'd all it's grace;
Here, full with life, was heav'n-taught Science feen,
Known by the laurel wreath, and musing mein:
There cloud-crown'd Fame, here Peace fedate and
bland,

Swell'd the loud trump, and wav'd the olive wand;

While folemn domes, arch'd fhades, and vistas green, At well-mark'd diftance close the sacred scene.

On this the Goddess cast an anxious look, Then dropt a tender tear, and thus she spoke : Yes, I could once with`pleas'd attention trace The mimic charms of this prophetic vase; Then lift my head, and with enraptur'd eyes View on yon plain the real glories rise. Yes, ISIS! oft haft thou rejoic'd to lead Thy liquid treasures o'er yon fav'rite mead; Oft haft thou ftopt thy pearly car to gaze, While ev'ry Science nurs'd it's growing bays; While ev'ry Youth with fame's strong impulse fir'd, Preft to the goal, and at the goal untir'd, Snatch'd each celeftial wreath, to bind his brow, The Mufes, Graces, Virtues could bestow.

E'en now fond Fancy leads th" ideal train,
And ranks her troops on Mem'ry's ample plain;
See the firm leaders of my patriot line,
See! SIDNEY, RALEIGH, HAMDEN, SOMERS, fhine.
See нOUGH fuperior to a tyrant's doom
Smile at the menace of the flave of Rome.

Each foul whom truth could fire, or virtue move,
Each breaft, ftrong panting with it's country's love,
All that to Albion gave the heart or head,
That wifely councell'd, or that bravely bled,
All, all appear; on me they grateful fmile,
The well-earn'd prize of every virtuous toil