Thus night oft see me in thy pale career,
Till civil-suited morn appear,

Not trickt and frounct as she was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,

But kerchieft in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or ushered with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of pine, or monumental oak,

Where the rude axe with heaved stroke
Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.
There in close covert by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee with honied thigh,
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring
With such consort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feathered sleep;

And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture displayed,

Softly on my eye-lids laid.

And as I wake, sweet music breathe

Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unseen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloisters pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antiqne pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light;
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full voiced quire below,
In service high, and anthems clear,

As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstacies,

And bring all heaven before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of every star that heaven doth shew,
And every herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy give,
And I with thee will choose to live.

MILTON.

Ode.

Written in the year 1746.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
He there shall dress a sweeter sod,
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall a while repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

COLLINS.

The Swallow.

FOOLISH prater! what dost thou
So early at my window do
With thy tuneless serenade?

Well it had been had Tereus made
Thee as drunk as Philomel;

There his knife had done but well.
In thy undiscovered nest

Thou dost all the winter rest,

And dreamest o'er thy summer joys
Free from the stormy season's noise;
Free from th' ill thou 'st done to me;
Who disturbs or seeks out thee?
Hadst thou all the charming notes
Of the woods' poetic throats,
All thy art could never pay
What thou 'st ta'en from me away.
Cruel bird! thou 'st ta'en away
A dream out of my arms to-day;
A dream that ne'er must equalled be
By all that waking eyes may see:
Thou this damage to repair,

Nothing half so sweet or fair,

Nothing half so good canst bring,

Though men say thou bringst the Spring.

COWLEY.

Ode to the Cuckoo.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of Spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear:
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy wandering through the wood,
To pull the primrose gay,
Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom
Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,

Another Spring to hail.