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Who fill'd with unexhausted fire,
May boldly smite the founding lyre,
Who with some new, unequalld song,
May rise above the rhyming throng.
O'er all our list'ning paflions reign,
O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain :
With terror shake, and pity move,
Rouze with revenge, or melt with love.
O deign t'attend his evening walk,
With him in groves


Teach him to scorn, with frigid art,
Feebly to touch th' unraptur'd heart;
Like light’ning, let his mighty verse
The Lofom's inmoft foldings pierce;
With native beauties win applause,
Teyond cold critic's studied laws :
Olet each Muse's fame cncrease,
O bid Britannia rival Greece.


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AIL 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 thro' 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 slender 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.

IV. To the deep wood the clamourous 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 fwain, that artless fings on yonder rock,
His fupping sheep, and lengthening shadow spies;
Pleas'd with the cool the calm refreshful hour,
And with hoarse humming of unnumber'd flies.

Now every Pallion 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 wand'ring votary in thy pensive train;
Listening to every wildly-warbling note,
That fills with farewel sweet thy dark ning plain.

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F ought of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chafte Eve, to sooth thy modeft 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: Nor air is huth'd, fave where the weak-ey'd bat, With short shrill friek 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 born in heedless hum;

Now teach me, Maid compos'd,
To breath some foften'd strain,

Whose numbers stealing thro' thy dark'ning vale, May not unseemly with it's stillness suit,

As mufing slow, I hail

Thy genial lov'd return!
For when thy folding star arising fhews
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who slept in flow'rs the day, And many a Nymph who wreaths her brows with

sedge, And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lovelier still,

The Pensive Pleasures sweet

Prepare thy shadowy car. Then lead, calm Vot'ress, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile,

Or up-land fallows grey

Reflect it's last cool gleam. But when chill bluft'ring winds, or driving rain, Forbid my willing feet; be mine the hut,

That from the mountain's fide,

Views wilds, and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their fimple 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 tresies, meekest Eve!

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