Ode to Evening. IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, Thy springs, and dying gales; O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired Sun O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat, His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Now teach me, maid composed, To breathe some softened 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 The fragrant hours, and elves Who slept in buds the day, And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still, The pensive pleasures sweet Prepare thy shadowy car, Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, By thy religious gleams. Then lead, dear votress, where some sheety lake Reflect the last cool gleam. Or if chill, blustering winds, or driving rain, Views wilds and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires, The gradual dusky veil. 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, Thy gentlest influence own, A Satyr PRESENTING FRUIT TO A SHEPHERDESS. THOROUGH уon same bending plain [Seeing the Shepherdess.] COLLINS. By that heavenly form of thine, Sprung from great immortal race Dare with misty eyes behold, And live! Therefore on this mould, In worship of thy deity. Deign it, goddess, from my hand, Here be grapes, whose lusty blood Sweeter yet did never crown The head of Bacchus; nuts more brown Than the squirrels' teeth that crack them; Deign, oh, fairest fair, to take them. For these black-eyed Driope Hath oftentimes commanded me Hath decked their rising cheeks in red, Such as on your lips is spread. Here be berries for a queen, Some be red, some be green; These are of that luscious meat, The great god Pan himself doth eat; I freely offer, and ere long Will bring you more, more sweet and strong, Lest the great Pan do awake, Swifter than the fiery sun. The Bride. HER finger was so small, the ring And to say truth (for out it must) Her feet beneath her petticoat, FLETCHER. |