ODE TO EVENING. Ir aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, Thy springs and dying gales; Oh nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed 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, To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial loved return! For when thy folding star arising shows Who slept in buds the day, And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy seene, Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams. Or if chill, blustering winds, or driving rain, That from the mountain's side And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, And rudely rends thy robes: So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, THE PASSIONS. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, And, as they oft had heard apart Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, With woful measures wan Despair But thou, oh Hope, with eyes so fair, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still through all the song; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung-but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose, He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down, And, with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sound so full of wo. And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And though sometimes, each dreary pause be tween, Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fix'd, Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, With eyes upraised, as one inspired, And from her wild sequester'd seat, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measur stole, Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But oh, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone! Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung. queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear Last came Joy's ecstatic trial, He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand address'd, But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw in Tempé's vale her native maids, Amidst the festal-sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing, While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, As if he would the charming air repay, Oh Music, sphere-descended maid, |