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Thus night oft fee me in thy palecarreer.
Till civil-suited morn appear,
Not trickt and frounct as she was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kercheft in a comely cloud, 125
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves.
With minute drops from osf the eaves. 130
And when the fun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me Goddess bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of pine, or monumental oak, 135
Where the rude ax with heaved stroke
Was never heard the Nymph's to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in close covert by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look, 140
Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee with honied thie,
That at her flow'ry work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring
With such consort as they keep, 145
Entice the dewy-feather'd fleep;
And let some strange misterious dream
Wave at his wings in aery stream
Of Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid. 150
And as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unseen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail 155
To walk the studious cloysters pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antic pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light. 160
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full voic'd quire below,
In service high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into extasies, 165
And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell 170
Of every star that Heav'n doth shew,
And every herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures Melancholy give, 175
And I with thee will choose to live.
Part of an Entertainment presented to the Countess Dowager of Derby, at Harefield, by some noble persons of her family, who appear on the scene in pastoral habit, moving toward the feat of slate, with this Song.
. I. S 0 X G.
LOOK Nymphs, and Shepherds look,
This, this is she 5
To whom our vows and wishes bend;
Fame, that her high worth to raise,
Seem'd erst so lavish and profuse,
We may justly now accuse 10
Of detraction from her praise;
Less than half we find exprest,
Envy bid conceal the rest.
Mark what radiant state she spreads,
In circle round her shining throne, 15
Shooting her beams like silver threads;
This, this is she alone,
Sitting like a Goddess bright,
Might she the wise Latona be, 20
Or the tovvred Cybele,
Mother os a hundred Gods;
Juno dares not give her odds;
Who had thought this clime had held
A deity so unparrallel'd? 25
As they come forward, the Genius of the wood appears, and turning toward them, speaks.
STAY gentle Swains, for though in this disguise,
Stole under seas to meet his Arethuse;
To the great mistress of yon princely shrine,
And And lead ye where ye may more near behold 40
What shallow-searching Fame hath left untold;
Which I full oft amidst these shades alone
Have fat to wonder at, and gaze upon:
For know by lot from Jove I am the Power
Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower, 45
To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the grove
With ringlets quaint, and wanton windings wove.
And all my plants I save from nightly ill
Of noisome winds, and blasting vapors chill:
And from the boughs brush off the evil dew, 50
And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blue,
Or what the cross dire-looking planet smites,
Or hurtful worm with canker'd venom bites.
When evening gray doth rife, I fetch my round
Over the mount, and all this hallow'd ground, 55
And early ere the odorous breath of morn
Awakes the flumb'ring leaves, or tassel'd horn
Shakes the high thicket, haste I all about,
Number my ranks, and visit every sprout
With puissant words, and murmurs made to bless;
But else in deep of night, when drowsiness 61
Hath lock'd up mortal fense, then listen I
To the celestial Sirens harmony,
That fit upon the nine infolded spheres,
And sing to those that hold- the vital shears, 65
And turn the adamantin spindle round,
On which the fate of Gods and men is wound.
D d Such