TO EVENING.

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear,
Like thy own brawling springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales;

*

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

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

His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum :
Now teach me, maid compos'd,

To breathe some soften'd strain,

Whose numbers,stealing through thydark'ning vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit;

As, musing slow, I hail

Thy genial lov'd return!

For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who slept in buds the day,

*May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs, &c.

Langhorne's edit.

And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with

sedge,

And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive Pleasures sweet,

Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;
Or find some ruin, midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod

By thy religious gleams.

Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That, from the mountain's side,
Views wilds, and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires;
And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light ;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own,

And love thy favourite name!

TO PEACE.

O THOU, who bad'st thy turtles bear Swift from his grasp thy golden hair, And sought'st thy native skies; When War, by vultures drawn from far, To Britain bent his iron car,

And bade his storms arise!

Tir'd of his rude tyrannic sway,
Our youth shall fix some festive day,
His sullen shrines to burn:

But thou who hear'st the turning spheres,
What sounds may charm thy partial ears,
And gain thy bless'd return!

O Peace, thy injur'd robes up-bind!
O rise

and leave not one behind

Of all thy beamy train!

The British Lion, goddess sweet,

Lies stretch'd on earth, to kiss thy feet,
And own thy holier reign.

Let others court thy transient smile,
But come to grace thy western isle,
By warlike Honour led;

And, while around her ports rejoice,

While all her sons adore thy choice,
With him for ever wed!

THE MANNERS.

FAREWELL, for clearer ken design'd,
The dim-discover'd tracts of mind;
Truths which, from action's paths retir'd,
My silent search in vain requir'd!
No more my sail that deep explores;
No more I search those magic shores;
What regions part the world of soul,
Or whence thy streams, Opinion, roll:
If e'er I round such fairy field,

Some pow'r impart the spear and shield
At which the wizard Passions fly;
By which the giant Follies die!

Farewell the porch, whose roof is seen
Arch'd with the' enlivening olive's green :
Where Science, prank'd in tissued vest,
By Reason, Pride, and Fancy, dress'd,
Comes, like a bride, so trim array'd,
To wed with Doubt in Plato's shade.

Youth of the quick uncheated sight, Thy walks, Observance, more invite ! O thou, who lov'st that ampler range Where life's wide prospects round thee change, And, with her mingled sons allied, Throw'st the prattling page aside, To me, in converse sweet, impart To read in man the native heart; To learn, where Science sure is found, From Nature as she lives around;

And gazing oft her mirror true,
By turns each shifting image view!
Till meddling Art's officious lore
Reverse the lessons taught before;
Alluring from a safer rule,

To dream in her enchanted school:

Thou, Heav'n, whate'er of great we boast,
Hast bless'd this social science most.

Retiring hence to thoughtful cell,
As Fancy breathes her potent spell,
Not vain she finds the charmful task,
In pageant quaint, in motley mask;
Behold before her musing eyes,
The countless Manners round her rise:
While, ever varing as they pass,
To some Contempt applies her glass;
With these the white-rob'd maids combine!
And those the laughing Satyrs join!
But who is he whom now she views,
In robe of wild contending hues ?
Thou by the Passions nurs'd; I greet
The comic sock that binds thy feet!
O Humour, thou whose name is known
To Britain's favour'd isle alone:
Me too amidst thy band admit;

There where the young-ey'd healthful Wit,
(Whose jewels in his crisped hair

Are plac'd each other's beams to share;
Whom no delights from thee divide)
In laughter loos'd, attends thy side!

By old Miletus,* who so long
Has ceas'd his love-inwoven song;

* Alluding to the Milesian tales, some of the earliest romances.