CXLVII 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 O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat, His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, To breathe some softened strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial loved return! For when thy folding-star arising shows. The fragrant Hours, and Elves Who slept in buds the day, 5 1Ο 15 20 And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive Pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car. N 25 Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams. Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, 30 Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut, 35 Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires ; And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. 40 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; Affrights thy shrinking train, And rudely rends thy robes; So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, 45 Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 50 And love thy favourite name! William Collins. CXLVIII TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flower, To spare thee now is past my power, 5 Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, Wi' speckled breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm; Scarce reared above the parent-earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, O' clod, or stane, Adorns the histie stubble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betrayed, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless-starred ! ΙΟ 15 20 25 30 35 Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, 4C Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, 45 To misery's brink, Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Full on thy bloom, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom. Robert Burns. 50 CXLIX ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD WEST. In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, Thomas Gray. CL TO THE HONOURABLE MISS CARTERET. Bloom of beauty, early flower By the next returning spring, Pretty sportlings full of May, Blooming on shalt thou appear 5 IO 15 20 25 And a brighter bloom in thee: 30 And another round of time, Circling, still improves thy prime : |