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Where bees search round with sad and weary drone,
In vain for flowers that bloomed but newly there;
While in the juicy corn, the hidden quail

Cries "Wet my foot!" and, hid as thoughts unborn,
The fairy-like and seldom seen land-rail

Utters "Craik, craik!" like voices underground: Right glad to meet the evening's dewy veil,

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THE EVENING STAR.

STAR that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary labourer free!
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou,
That send'st it from above,
Appearing when heaven's breath and brow
Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,

Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,

And songs, when toil is done,

From cottages whose smoke unstirred

Curls yellow in the sun.

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Star of love's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in heaven

Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven

By absence from the heart.

T. Campbell.

EVENING.

IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,

May hope, O pensive Eve! to soothe thine ear,
Like thy own brawling springs,

Thy springs and dying gales.

O nymph reserved! 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-eyed 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 composed,

To breathe some soften'd strain,

Whose numbers, stealing thro' thy darkening vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,

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, and elves

Who slept in buds the day,

And many a nymph, who wreathes her brows with sedge,

And sheds the freshening dews, and, lovelier still,

The pensive Pleasures sweet,

Prepare thy shadowy car.

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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 blustering 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, yelling through 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!

W. Collins.

MILKEN TIME.*

"TWER when the busy birds did vlee,
Wi' sheenen wings, vrom tree to tree,
To build upon the mossy lim',

Their hollow nestes' rounded rim;
The while the zun, a-zinkèn low,
Did roll along his evenèn bow,

I come along where wide-horn'd cows,
'Ithin a nook, a screen'd by boughs,
Did stan' an' flip the white-hoop'd païls,
Wi' heäiry tufts o' swingèn tails;
An' there wer Jenny Coom a gone
Along the path a vew steps on,
A-beären on her head, up-straight,
Her païl, wi' slowly-riden waïght,

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* This poem and that on "Hay Miaken are taken, by permission, from Poems in the Dorsel

shire dialect. By the Rev. W. Barnes, 3 vols. J. R. Smith, Soho Square.

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