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When evening lights her glow-worm, lead
To yonder dew-enameli'd inead;
This my tributary lay
Who, for seven whole years, hast shed
Those fragrant lips of rosy hue,
Now, by swiftest zephyrs drawn,
In yon gloomy grotto laid,
O hover round the virtuous sage:
Venus from Æneas' side
To extract th' enyenom'd dart
Propitious to the queen of love,
What, though banish'd from the fight,
Ranks on ranks tumultuous rose
He only panted to obtain
A laurel wreath for thousands slain ; On nobler views intent, the sage's mind Pants to delight, instruct, and humanize mankind.
Written in Whichwood Forest.
BY T. WARTON.
THE hinds how blest, who ne'er beguiled
When morning's twilight-tinctured beam
'Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear,
For them the moon, with cloudless ray, Mounts, to illume their homeward way: Their weary spirits to relieve, The meadows incense breathe at eye. No riot mars the simple fare That o’er a glimmering hearth they share : But when the curfew's measured roar Duly, the darkening valleys o'er, Has echoed from the distant town, They wish no beds of cygnet down, No trophied canopies, to close Their drooping eyes in quick repose.
Their little sons, who spread the bloom
Their humble porch with honied flowers The curling woodbine's shade embowers : From the trim garden's thymy mound Their bees in busy swarms resound; Nor fell Disease, before his time, Hastes to consume life's golden prime : But when their temples long have wore The silver crown of tresses hoar, As studious still calm
to keep, Beneath a flowery turf they ер.
ODE TO EVENING.
BY DR. J. WARTON.
HAIL, meek-eyed maiden, clad in sober gray,
Whose soft approach the weary woodman loves ; As homeward bent, to kiss his prattling babes,
Jocund, he whistles through the twilight groves. When Phoebus sinks behind the gilded hills,
You lightly o’er the misty meadows walk, The drooping daisies bathe in dulcet dews,
And nurse the nodding violet's tender stalk. The panting Dryads, that, in day's fierce heat,
To inmost bowers and cooling caverns ran, Return to trip in wanton evening dance ;
Old Sylvan too returns, and laughing Pan. To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair,
Light skims the swallow o'er the watery scene ; And from the sheepcote and fresh-furrow'd field,
Stout plowmen meet to wrestle on the green. The swain that artless sings on yonder rock,
His supping sheep and lengthening shadow spies, Pleased with the cool, the calm refreshing hour,
And with hoarse humming of unnumber'd flies. Now every passion sleeps : desponding Love,
And pining Envy, ever restless Pride;
O modest Evening! oft let me appear
A wandering votary in thy pensive train; Listening to every wildly warbling note
That fills with farewel sweet thy darkening plain.
BY MR. WHITEHEAD.
ONCE, I remember well the day,
Had lost their freshest hues,
Of sunshine and of dews.
In short, 'twas that sweet season's prime,
To Summer's glowing hand,
Which fan the smiling land.
I urged my devious way,
So wondrous bright the day.