Hail meek-ey'd Maiden, clad in sober grey, Whose soft approach the weary wood-man loves; As homeward bent to kiss his prattling babes, Jocund he whistles through the twilight groves.
When Phæbus 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 bow'rs, and cooling caverns ran; Return to trip in wanton ev'ning dance, Old Sylvan too returns, and laughing Pan.
To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair, Light skims the swallow o'er the watry scene; And from the sheep-cote, and fresh furrow'd-field, Stout ploughmen meet to wrestle on the green.
The swain, that artless sings on yonder rock, His supping sheep, and lengthening shadow spies; Pleas'd with the cool the calm refreshful hour, And with hoarse humming of unnumber'd flies.
Now ev'ry Passion sleeps: desponding Love, And pining Envy, ever-restless Pride; An 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.
If ought of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest ear; Like thy own solemn springs, Thy springs, and dying gales, O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat, With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum; Now teach me, Maid compos'd, To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers stealing thro' thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with it's stillness suit, As musing slow, I hail Thy genial lov'd return! For when thy folding star arising shews His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant Hours, and Elves Who slept in flowers the day, And many a Nymph who wreaths her brows with sedge, And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lovelier still, The Pensive Pleasure's sweet Prepare thy shadowy car. Then lead, calm Votress, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile, Or up-land fallows grey Reflect its last cool gleam. But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain, Forbid my willing feet; be mine the hut, That from the mountain's side, Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. While spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport, Beneath thy ling'ring light: While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; Or Winter yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, And rudely rends thy robes; So long, sure-found beneath thy sylvan shed, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lip'd Health, Thy gentlest influence own, And hymn thy fav'rite name!