Proclaim her reign restor❜d:

Till William seek the sad retreat,

And bleeding at her sacred feet,

Present the sated sword.

If, weak to sooth so soft an heart,

These pictur'd glories nought impart,

To dry thy constant tear:

If yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,

Expos'd and pale thou seest him lie,

Wild war insulting near:

Where'er from time thou court'st relief,

The Muse shall still, with social grief,

Her gentlest promise keep:

Even humble Harting's cottag'd vale,

Shall learn the sad repeated tale,

And bid her shepherds weep.

F 2

ODE TO EVENING.

IF aught 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 dark'ning 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.