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When evening lights her glow-worm, lead
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
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,
Nor let one sigh for his own suffering rise;
Each human suffering fills his sympathizing eyes.
Venus from Æneas' side
To extract th' envenom'd dart
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
When morning's twilight-tinctured beam
'Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear,
In their lone haunts and woodland rounds
For them the moon, with cloudless ray,
That o'er a glimmering hearth they share:
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
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.
ODE TO EVENING.
BY DR. J. WARTON.
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.
BY MR. WHITEHEAD.
ONCE, I remember well the day,
In short, 'twas that sweet season's prime,
And doubting mortals hardly know
"Twas then, beside a green-wood shade, Which clothed a lawn's aspiring head,
I urged my devious way,