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When evening lights her glow-worm, lead
To yonder dew-enamell'd mead;

And let me range at night those glimmering groves, Where stillness ever sleeps, and Contemplation roves.

This my tributary lay

Grateful at thy shrine I pay,

Who, for seven whole years, hast shed
Thy balmy blessings o'er my head;
O! let me still enamor'd view

Those fragrant lips of rosy hue,

Nor think there needs th' allay of sharp disease, To quicken thy repast, and give it power to please.

Now, by swiftest zephyrs drawn,
Urge thy chariot o'er the lawn;
In yon gloomy grotto laid,
PALEMON asks thy kindly aid;
If goodness can that aid engage,
O hover round the virtuous sage:

Nor let one sigh for his own suffering rise;

Each human suffering fills his sympathizing eyes.

Venus from Æneas' side
With successful efforts tried

To extract th' envenom'd dart
That baffled wise lapis' art,
If thus, HYGEIA, thou couldst prove
Propitious to the queen of love,

Now on thy favor'd HEBERDEN bestow

Thy choicest healing powers, for Pallas asks them now.

What, though banish'd from the fight,

To the hero's troubled sight

Ranks on ranks tumultuous rose

Of flying friends and conquering foes:

He only panted to obtain

A laurel wreath for thousands slain ;

On nobler views intent, the sage's mind Pants to delight, instruct, and humanize mankind.


Written in Whichwood Forest.

THE hinds how blest, who ne'er beguiled
To quit their hamlet's hawthorn wild;
Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main,
For splendid care, and guilty gain!

When morning's twilight-tinctured beam
Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam,
They rove abroad in ether blue,
To dip the scythe in fragrant dew;
The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell,
That nodding shades a craggy dell.

'Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear,
Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear:
green untrodden banks they view
The hyacinth's neglected hue:

In their lone haunts and woodland rounds
They spy the squirrel's airy bounds;
And startle from her ashen spray,
Across the glen, the screaming jay.
Each native charm their steps explore
Of solitude's sequester'd store.

For them the moon, with cloudless ray,
Mounts, to illume their homeward way:
Their weary spirits to relieve,
The meadows incense breathe at eve.
No riot mars the simple fare

That o'er a glimmering hearth they share:
But when the curfew's measured roar
Duly, the darkening valleys o'er,
Has echoed from the distant town,
They wish no beds of cygnet down,
No trophied canopies, to close
Their drooping eyes in quick repose.

Their little sons, who spread the bloom Of health around the clay-built room, Or through the primrosed coppice stray, Or gambol in the new-mown hay; Or quaintly braid the cowslip-twine, Or drive afield the tardy kine;

Or hasten from the sultry hill
To loiter at the shady rill;
Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest
To rob the raven's ancient nest.

Their humble porch with honied flowers The curling woodbine's shade embowers: From the trim garden's thymy mound Their bees in busy swarms resound; Nor fell Disease, before his time, Hastes to consume life's golden prime : But when their temples long have wore The silver crown of tresses hoar, As studious still calm peace to keep, Beneath a flowery turf they sleep.



HAIL, meek-eyed maiden, clad in sober gray, Whose soft approach the weary woodman loves; As homeward bent, to kiss his prattling babes,

Jocund, he whistles through the twilight groves. When Phœbus sinks behind the gilded hills,

You lightly o'er the misty meadows walk, The drooping daisies bathe in dulcet dews,

And nurse the nodding violet's tender stalk. The panting Dryads, that, in day's fierce heat, To inmost bowers and cooling caverns ran, Return to trip in wanton evening dance;

Old Sylvan too returns, and laughing Pan. To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair,

Light skims the swallow o'er the watery scene; And from the sheepcote and fresh-furrow'd field, Stout plowmen meet to wrestle on the green. The swain that artless sings on yonder rock,

His supping sheep and lengthening shadow spies, Pleased with the cool, the calm refreshing hour,

And with hoarse humming of unnumber'd flies. Now every passion sleeps: desponding Love, And pining Envy, ever restless Pride; And holy Calm creeps o'er my peaceful soul, Anger and mad Ambition's storms subside.


O modest Evening! oft let me appear

A wandering votary in thy pensive train ; Listening to every wildly warbling note

That fills with farewel sweet thy darkening plain.




ONCE, I remember well the day,
'Twas ere the blooming sweets of May
Had lost their freshest hues,
When every flower, on every hill,
In every vale, had drank its fill
Of sunshine and of dews.

In short, 'twas that sweet season's prime,
When Spring gives up the reins of time
To Summer's glowing hand,

And doubting mortals hardly know
By whose command the breezes blow
Which fan the smiling land.

"Twas then, beside a green-wood shade, Which clothed a lawn's aspiring head,

I urged my devious way,
With loitering steps, regardless where,
So soft, so genial was the air,
So wondrous bright the day.

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