IV. To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair, Light skims the swallow o'er the watry scene; And from the sheep-cote, and fresh furrow'd-field, Stout ploughmen meet to wrestle on the green. V. The fwain, that artlefs fings on yonder rock, Now ev'ry Paffion fleeps: defponding Love, VII. O modeft EVENING! oft let me appear ODE то EVEN IN G. BY MR. WILLIAM COLLINS. F ought of oaten ftop, or paftoral fong, Thy fprings, and dying gales, ONymph referv'd, while now the bright-hair'd fun Sits in yon western tent, whofe cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hufh'd, fave where the weak-ey'd bat, With fhort fhrill fhriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His fmall but fullen horn, As oft he rifes 'midft the twilight path, To breathe fome foften'd ftrain, Whofe numbers ftealing thro' thy darkening vale, May not unfeemly with it's ftillness fuit, As mufing flow, I hail Thy genial lov'd return! For when thy folding ftar arifing fhews And many a Nymph who wreaths her brows with fedge, And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lovelier still, The Penfive Pleafure's fweet Prepare thy fhadowy car. Then lead, calm Votrefs, where fome fheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or fome time-hallow'd pile, Or up-land fallows grey Reflect its laft cool gleam. But when chill bluftering winds, or driving rain, Views wilds, and fwelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, And hears their fimple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dufky veil. While fpring fhall pour his fhow'rs, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing treffes, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport, Beneath thy ling'ting light: While fallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; And rudely rends thy robes; So long, fure-found beneath thy fylvan fhed, E ISIS. A N ELEG Y. WRITTEN BY MR. MASON OF CAMBRIDGE, 1748. F AR from her hallow'd grot, where mildly bright, The pointed crystals shot their trembling light, From dripping mofs where sparkling dew-drops fell, Where coral glow'd, where twin'd the wreathed fhell, Pale ISIS lay; a willow's lowly shade Spread its thin foliage o'er the fleeping 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 its grace; Here, full with life, was heav'n-taught Science feen, Known by the laurel wreath, and mufing mien: There cloud-crown'd Fame, here Peace fedate and bland, Swell'd the loud trump, and wav'd the olive wand; |