I ODE to EVENING. By the Same. F aught of oaten stop, or pastoral fong, May hope, chafte EvE, to footh thy modeft ear, Like thy own folemn springs, Thy springs, and dying gales, O NYMPH referv'd, while now the bright-hair'd fun Oe'rhang his wavy bed: Now air is hufh'd, fave where the weak-ey'd bat, With short shrill fhrieks flits by on leathern wing, His fmall but fullen horn, As oft he rifes 'midft the twilight path, Now teach me, maid compos'd, To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers stealing through thy dark'ning vale, May not unfeemly with its ftillness fuit, As musing flow, I hail Thy genial lov'd return! For when thy folding star arising shews 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, Prepare thy fhadowy car. Then lead, calm Vot'refs, where some sheety lake Reflect its last cool gleam. But when chill bluft'ring winds, or driving rain, Views wilds, and fwelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. While While Spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing treffes, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy ling'ring light; While fallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; And rudely rends thy robes; So long, fure-found beneath the Sylvan fhed, VERSES written on a BLANK LEAF, By Lord LANSDOWN, when he prefented his Works to the Queen, 1732. A Muse expiring, who with earliest voice, [choice, Made kings and queens, and beauty's charms her Now on her death-bed, the laft homage pays, O Queen, to thee; accept her dying lays. So at th' approach of death the cygnet tries Had puzzled Loyalty for half an age: And in your person own the right divine. ADVICE to a Lady in AUTUMN. A SSES milk, half a pint, take at seven, or before; Then fleep for an hour or two, and no more. At nine ftretch your arms, and oh! think when alone, There's no pleasure in bed.-MARY, bring me my gown: Slip on that ere you rife; let your caution be fuch; Keep all cold from your breast, there's already too much; Your pinners fet right, your twitcher ty❜d on, And with fenfe like your own, fet your mind for the day. |