That hence my foul may hope to prove
The utmost faints can know;

And share his gracious smile above,

Whofe laws she kept below.

MISS S. CARTER.

DAY: A PASTORAL..

MORNING.

IN the barn the tenant cock,
Close to Partlet perch'd on high,
Brifkly crows, (the fhe herd's clock!)
Jocund that the morning's nigh.

Swiftly from the mountain's brow,
Shadows, nurs'd by Night, retire,
And the peeping fun-beam, now,,
Paints with gold the village fpire.

Philomel forfakes the thorn,

Plaintive where the prates at night;
And the lark, to meet the morn,
Soars beyond the fhepherd's fight.

From the low-roof'd cottage ridge
See the chatt'ring swallow spring;

Darting through the one-arch'd bridge, Quick the dips her dappled wing.

Now the pine-tree's waving top
Gently greets the morning gale!
Kidlings, now, begin to crop-
Daifies in the dewy vale.

From the balmy fweets, uncloy'd,
(Reftlefs till her task be done)
Now the bufy bee's employ'd,"
Sipping dew before the fun.

Trickling thro' the crevic'd rock, Where the limpid ftream diftils, Sweet refreshment waits the flock, When 'tis fun-drove from the hills.

Colin, for the promis'd corn,

Ere the harvest hopes are ripe, Anxious hears the huntsmen's horn, Boldly founding drown his pipe.

Sweet, O fweet, the warbling throng, On the white emblossom'd spray! Nature's univerfal fong

Echoes to the rising day.

NOON.

FERVID on the glitt❜ring flood,
Now the noon-tide radiance glows,
Dropping o'er its infant bud,

Not a dew-drop's left the rofe.

By the brook the fhepherd dines,
From the fierce meridian heat
Shelter'd by the branching pines,
Pendant o'er his graffy feat.

Now the flock forfakes the glade,

Where, uncheck'd, the fun-beams fall;

Sure to find a pleasing shade

By the ivy'd abbey-wall.

Echo in her airy round,

O'er the river, rock and hill,

Cannot catch a fingle found

Save the clack of yonder mill

Cattle court the zephyrs bland,
Where the ftreamlet wanders cool;

Or with languid filence stand
Midway in the marshy pool.

But from mountain, dell, or stream,
Not a flutt'ring zephyr springs;
Fearful left the noon-tide beam

Scorch its foft, its filken wings.

Not a leaf has leave to ftir,
Nature's lull'd, ferene, and ftill!
Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur,
Sleeping on the heath-clad hill.

Languid is the landscape round,
'Till the fresh descending shower,
Grateful to the thirsty ground,
Raifes ev'ry fainting flower.

Now the hill, the hedge is green,
Now the warbler's throat's in tune!

Blithfome is the verdant fcene,
Brighten'd by the beams of noon!

EVENING.

O'ER the heath the heifer ftrays Free-(the furrow'd tafk is done) Now the village windows blaze,

Burnish'd by the fetting fun.

Now he hides behind the hill,

Sinking from a golden sky: Can the pencil's mimic skill, Copy the refulgent dye ?

Trudging as the ploughmen go,

(To the fmoking hamlet bound)] Giant-like their fhadows grow, Lengthen'd o'er the level ground.

Where the rifing foreft spreads,
Shelter for the lordly dome!
To their high-built airy beds,
See the rooks returning home!

As the lark with varied tune,
Carols to the evening loud,
Mark the mild refplendent moon,
Breaking thro' a parted cloud!

Now the hermit howlet peeps

From the barn, or twifted brake; And the blue mift flowly creeps, Curling on the filver lake.

As the trout in fpeckled pride,
Playful from its bofom fprings,