15

And oft, as if her head the bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rifing ground,
I hear the far-off Curfeu found,
Over fome wide-water'd fhoar,
Swinging flow with fullen roar;
Or if the air will not permit,
Some fill removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all refort of mirth,
Save the Cricket on the hearth,
Or the Belman's drowfie charm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm:
Or let my lamp at midnight hour,
Be feen in fome high lonely Tow'r.
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unfphear
The fpirit of Plato to unfold

What worlds, or what vaft regions hold
The immortal mind that hath forfook
Her manfion in this fleshly nook:
And of thofe Damons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whofe power hath a true confent
With Planet, or with Element.
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In fcepter'd Pall come fweeping by,
Prefenting Thebs, or Pelops line,
Or the tale of Troy divine.

Or what (though rare) of later age,
Ennobled bath the buskin'd ftage.
But, O fad Virgin, that thy power
Might raife Mufaus from his bower,
Or bid the Soul of Orpheus fing
Such notes as warbled to the firing,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what Love did feek,

Or call up him that left half told
The ftory of Cambufcan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarfife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That own'd the vertuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous Horfe of brafs,
On which the Tartar King did ride;
And if ought elfe, great Bards befide,
In fage, and folemn tunes have fung,
Of Turneys, and of Trophies hung;
Of Forefts, and Inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear,
Thus night oft fee me in thy pale career,
Till civil-fuited morn appear,

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120

Not trickt and frounc't as he was wont,
With the Attick Boy to hunt,

But kercheft in a comely cloud,

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While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or ufher'd with a fhower ftill,
When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rufsling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the Sun begins to fling.
His flaring beams, me Goddefs bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of Pine, or monumental oake,
Where the rude ax with heaved ftroke,
Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in clofe covert by fome brook,

Where no profaner eye may look,

Hide me from Day's garish eye,
While the Bee with honied thigh,
That at her flowry work doth fing,
And the waters murmuring

With fuch confort as they keep,

Entice the dewy feather'd deep;

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And