And while meridian fervors beat,
Thine is the woodland dumb retreat ;-
But chief, when evening scenes decay,
And the faint landscape swims away,
Thine is the doubtful soft decline,
And that best hour of musing thine.
Descending angels bless thy train,
The Virtues of the fage, and fwain :
Plain innocence, in white array'd,
Before thee lifts her fearless head:
Religion's beams around thee shinė,
And chear thy glooms with light divine:
About thee Sports sweet Liberty;
And rapt Urania fings to thee.
Oh, let me pierce thy Secret cell!
And in thy deep. recesses dwell.
Perhaps from Norwood's oak.clad hill,
When Meditation has her fill,
I just may cast my careless eyes
Where London's spiry turrets rise
Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain,
Then fhield me in the woods again.