The fever from my cheek, and sigh The full new life that feeds thy breath And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death, And sheds the freshening dew; and, lovelier Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed. Now air is hushed, save where the weak eyed bat he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; wing; Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Now teach me, maid composed, Whose numbers, stealing through thy dark- May not unseemly with its stillness suit; Thy genial loved return! For when thy folding star arising shows The fragrant Hours, and elves Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Thy gentlest influence own, WILLIAM COLLINS. TO THE EVENING STAR. TO NIGHT. THE OWL. MYSTERIOUS Night! when our first parent knew Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, 109 O—when the moon shines, and dogs do howl, Then, then, is the joy of the Horned Owl! Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight; If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight, fate Hath rent them from all beside! Who could have thought such darkness lay So, when the night falls, and dogs do howl, concealed Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find, While fly, and leaf, and insect lay revealed, Sing Ho! for the reign of the Horned Owl! We know not alway Who are kings by day, That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us But the King of the night is the bold brown |