Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat, i

With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,

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 darkʼning vale,

May not unseemly with its stillness suit,

As musing slow, I hail

Thy genial lov'd return!

For when thy folding-star arising shows

His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who slept in buds the day,

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.

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 blust'ring winds, or driving rain,

Prevent 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 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,

Or Winter, yellow thro' the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes:

So long regardful of thy quiet rule,

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,

Thy gentlest influence own,

And love thy favourite name!

ODE TO PEACE....

THOU! who bad'st thy turtles bear

Swift from his grasp thy golden hair,

And sought'st thy native skies:

When War, by vultures drawn from far,

To Britain bent his iron car,

And bade his storms arise!.

Tir'd of his rude tyrannic sway,

Our youth shall fix some festive day,

His sullen shrines to burn:

But thou, who hear'st the turning spheres,

What sounds may charm thy partial ears,

And gain thy blest return!