As oft he rises, midst the twilight path
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:
me, maid composed,
To breathe some softend strain,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return!
For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant hours,
Who slept in buds the day,
And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,
And sheds the freshening dew, and,
The pensive pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car:
Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-
Or upland fallows grey
Reflect its last cool gleam.
Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut
the mountains side
Views wilds and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discoverd spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks oer
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.
While Spring shall pour his showrs, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes:
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lippd Health
gentlest influence own,
And hymn thy favourite name!
TO fair Fideles grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of
And rifle all the breathing Spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads
And melting virgins own their love.
No witherd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall
haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.
The redbreast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gatherd
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell;
Ormidst the chase,
on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell;
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Beloved, till life can charm
And mournd, till Pitys self be dead.
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