Now, with religious awe, the farewell light Blends with the solemn coloring of night;

'Mid groves of clouds that crest the mountain's brow, And round the west's proud lodge their shadows throw,

Like Una shining on her gloomy way,

The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray;
Shedding, through paly loopholes mild and small,
Gleams that upon the lake's still bosom fall;
Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres pale,
Tracking the motions of the fitful gale.
With restless interchange, at once the bright
Wins on the shade, the shade upon the light.
No favored eye was e'er allowed to gaze
On lovelier spectacle in faery days;

When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chase,
Brushing with lucid wands the water's face;
While music, stealing round the glimmering deeps,
Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted steeps.
-The lights are vanished from the watery plains:
No wreck of all the pageantry remains.

Unheeded night has overcome the vales:
On the dark earth the wearied vision fails;
The latest lingerer of the forest train,
The lone black fir, forsakes the faded plain;
Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no more,
Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers hoar;
And, towering from the sullen dark-brown mere,
Like a black wall, the mountain steeps appear.

Now o'er the soothed, accordant heart we feel

A sympathetic twilight slowly steal,

And ever, as we fondly muse, we find
The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind.
Stay! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay!
Ah no! as fades the vale, they fade away:
Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains;
Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear retains.

The bird, who ceased, with fading light, to thread Silent the hedge or steamy rivulet's bed, From his gray re-appearing tower shall soon Salute with gladsome note the rising moon, While with a hoary light she frosts the ground, And pours a deeper blue to Ether's bound; Pleased, as she moves, her pomp of clouds to fold In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold.

Above yon eastern hill, where darkness broods O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and woods; Where but a mass of shade the sight can trace, Even now she shows, half veiled, her lovely face: Across the gloomy valley flings her light, Far to the western slopes with hamlets white; And gives, where woods the checkered upland strew, To the green corn of summer, autumn's hue.

Thus Hope, first pouring from her blessed horn Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon's own morn, Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer The weary hills, impervious, blackening near;

Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the while
On darling spots remote her tempting smile.

Even now she decks for me a distant scene, (For dark and broad the gulf of time between,) Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray, (Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my way; How fair its lawns and sheltering woods appear ! How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mine ear!) Where we, my Friend, to happy days shall rise, Till our small share of hardly paining sighs (For sighs will ever trouble human breath) Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of death.

But now the clear bright Moon her zenith gains, And, rimy without speck, extend the plains: The deepest cleft the mountain's front displays Scarce hides a shadow from her searching rays; From the dark-blue faint silvery threads divide The hills, while gleams below the azure tide; Time softly treads; throughout the landscape breathes

A peace enlivened, not disturbed, by wreaths Of charcoal-smoke, that, o'er the fallen wood, Steal down the hill, and spread along the flood.

The song of mountain streams, unheard by day, Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way. Air listens, like the sleeping water, still, To catch the spiritual music of the hill,

Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep,
Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from sleep,
The echoed hoof nearing the distant shore,
The boat's first motion, made with dashing oar;
Sound of closed gate, across the water borne,
Hurrying the timid hare through rustling corn;
The sportive outcry of the mocking owl;
And at long intervals the mill-dog's howl;
The distant forge's swinging thump profound;
Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound.

1787-89.

IV.

LINES

WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING.

How richly glows the water's breast
Before us, tinged with evening hues,
While, facing thus the crimson west,
The boat her silent course pursues!
And see how dark the backward stream,
A little moment past so smiling!
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,
Some other loiterers beguiling.

Such views the youthful Bard allure;
But, heedless of the following gloom,
He deems their colors shall endure
peace go with him to the tomb.

Till

-And let him nurse his fond deceit,
And what if he must die in sorrow!
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,
Though grief and pain may come to morrow?

V.

REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS,

COMPOSED UPON THE THAMES NEAR RICHMOND.

GLIDE gently, thus for ever glide,
O Thames! that other bards may see

• As lovely visions by thy side.
As now, fair river! come to me.

O, glide, fair stream! for ever so

Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,

Till all our minds for ever flow

As thy deep waters now are flowing.

Vain thought!

Yet be as now thou art,

1789.

That in thy waters may be seen

The image of a poet's heart,

How bright, how solemn, how serene !
Such as did once the Poet bless,

Who, murmuring here a later * ditty,

*Collins's Ode on the Death of Thomson, the last written, I believe, of the poems which were published during his lifetime. This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza.