And while Meridian fervors beat,
Thine is the woodland dumb retreat;
But chief, when evening scenes decay,
And the faint landskip fwims away,
Thine is the doubtful foft decline,
And that beft hour of musing thine.

Defcending angels bless thy train,
The virtues of the sage, and swain;
Plain Innocence in white array'd,
Before thee lifts her fearless head:
Religion's beams around thee fhine,
And chear thy glooms with light divine:
About thee sports sweet Liberty;
And rapt Urania fings to thee.

Oh, let me pierce thy fecret cell! And in thy deep receffes dwell;

Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill,
When Meditation has her fill,

I just may caft my careless eyes
Where London's fpiry turrets rise,
Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain,
Then fhield me in the woods again.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

J