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The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known. The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen, Satyrs and Sylvan boys were seen,
Peeping forth from their alleys green:
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial;
He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed: But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best: They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing, While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round;
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Where is thy native simple heart,
O bid our vain endeavours cease;
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
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
Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat, With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn.
As oft he rises midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum;
To breathe some softened strain,
Whose numbers stealing through thy darkening vale,
Thy genial loved return!
For when thy folding star arising shows
And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,
The pensive pleasures sweet
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
And hamlets brown, and dim discovered spires,
The gradual dusky veil.
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
And rudely rends thy robes;
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
And love thy favourite name!
DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear,
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove, But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
No withered witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew! The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
The redbreast oft at evening hours,
When howling winds and beating rain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell:
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
And mourned, till pity's self be dead.