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Thus night oft see me in thy pale carreer.
Till civil-fuited morn appear,
Not trickt and frounct as fhe was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kercheft in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or ufher'd with a shower still,
When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the ruffling leaves.
With minute drops from off the eaves.
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,
Where the rude ax with heaved ftroke
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,
Hide me from day's garish eye,
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the ftudious cloyfters pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antic pillars massy proof,
And ftoried windows richly dight,
Cafting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full voic'd quire below,
In fervice high, and anthems clear,
As with sweetness, through mine ear,
Diffolve me into extafies,
And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and moffy cell,
Where I may fit and rightly spell
Of every flar that Heav'n doth fhew,
And every herb that fips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To fomething like prophetic ftrain.
These pleasures Melancholy give,
And I with thee will choose to live.
Part of an Entertainment prefented to the Countess Dowager of Derby, at Harefield, by fome noble persons of her family, who appear on the scene in paftoral habit, moving toward the feat of state, with this Song.
OOK Nymphs, and Shepherds look,
What fudden blaze of majesty
Is that which we from hence defcry,
Too divine to be mistook :
To whom our vows and wishes bend;
Here our folemn search hath end.
Fame, that her high worth to raise,
Seem'd erft fo lavish and profuse,
We may justly now accuse
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,
Shooting her beams like filver threads;
This, this is she alone,
Sitting like a Goddess bright,
In the center of her light.
Might fhe the wise Latona be,
Mother of a hundred Gods;
Juno dares not give her odds;
Who had thought this clime had held
A deity fo unparrallel'd?
As they come forward, the Genius of the wood appears, and turning toward them, fpeaks.
TAY gentle Swains, for though in this disguise,
I fee bright honor sparkle through your eyes; Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung
Of that renowned flood, so often fung,
Divine Alpheus, who by secret sluce
Stole under feas to meet his Arethuse;
ye, the breathing roses of the wood,
Fair filver-bufkin'd Nymphs as great and good,
I know this quest of yours, and free intent
Was all in honor and devotion meant
To the great mistress of yon princely shrine,
Whom with low reverence I adore as mine,
And with all helpful fervice will comply
To further this night's glad folemnity;
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,
To nurse the faplings 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 blafting vapors chill:
And from the boughs brush off the evil dew,
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 taffel'd horn
Shakes the high thicket, hafte I all about,
Number my ranks, and visit every sprout
With puiffant words, and murmurs made to blefs;
But else in deep of night, when drowsiness
Hath lock'd up mortal sense, then listen I
To the celestial Sirens harmony,
That fit upon the nine infolded spheres,
And fing to those that hold the vital shears,
And turn the adamantin spindle round,
On which the fate of Gods and men is wound.