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With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wary bed:
Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat,
With short shrill shriek fits 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 born in heedless hum:
Now teach me, Maid compos’d,
To breathe some soften'd strain,
Whose numbers stealing thro' thy dark’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,
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.
* What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn.-Milton's Lycides, r. 21.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
Or find some ruin ʼmidst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.'
Or if chill blustring winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's side,
Views wilds, and swelling floods,
And haoilets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their simple bell, and inarks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
Tlie 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 thro' the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrieking train,
And radely 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!
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 blest 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!
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 requirid !
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 power impart the spear and shield,
At which the wizzard Passions fly,
By which the giant Follies die !
Farewell the porch, whose roof is.
Arch'd with th’enlivening olive's green:
Where Science, prank'd in tissued vest,
By Reason, Pride, and Fancy drest,
Comes like a bride, so trim array’ıl,
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 art,
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, heaven, whate'er of great we boast,
Hast blest 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 varying 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 ?