Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among I woo, to hear thy even song; And missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green, To behold the wand'ring moon Riding near her hightest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through the heav'n's wide pathless way; And oft, as if her head she bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound, Over some wide-water'd shore Swinging slow with sullen roar : Or if the air will not permit, Some still removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth; Or the bellman's drowsy charm, To bless the doors from nightly harm. Or let my lamp at midnight hour Be seen in some high lonely tow'r, Where I may oft outwatch the Bear, With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere The spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds, or what vast regions hold Or what (though rare) of later age, And who had Canace to wife, That own'd the virtuous ring and glass; And of the wondrous horse of brass, On which the Tartar king did ride : And if aught else great bards beside and solemn tunes have sung In sage Of tourneys, and of trophies hung, Where more is meant than meets the ear. Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, "Till civil-suited Morn appear, Not trickt and frounct as she was wont But kercheft in a comely cloud, While rocking winds are piping loud, Or usher'd with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill, With minute drops from off the eaves. Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke, Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. There, in close covert, by some brook, Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee, with honied thigh, And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Sent by some spirit to mortals good, In service high, and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all heav'n before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age POLLIO; AN ELEGIAC ODE. [MICKLE.] THE peaceful evening breathes her balmy store, The playful school-boys wanton o'er the green, Where spreading poplars shade the cottage door, The villagers in rustic joy convene. Amid the secret windings of the wood, |