Thus night oft fee me in thy pale career,
Till civil-fuited Morn appeer,
Not trickt and frounc't as fhe was wont,
With the Attick Boy to hunt,
But Cherchef't in a comely Cloud,
While rocking Winds are Piping loud,
Or ufher'd with a shower still,
When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the ruffling 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 fhadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of Pine, or monumental Oake,
Where the rude Ax with heaved stroke,
Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in close covert by fome Brook,
Where no prophaner eye may look,
Hide me from Day's garish eie,
While the Bee with Honied thie,
That at her flowry work doth fing,
And the Waters murmuring
With fuch confort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;
And let som strange mysterious dream,
Wave at his Wings in Airy stream,
Of lively portrature display'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid.
And as I wake, fweet mufick breath
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by fom spirit to mortals good,
Or th'unseen Genius of the Wood.
But let my due feet never fail,
To walk the studious Cloysters pale.
And love the high embowed Roof,
With antick Pillars maffy proof,
And storied Windows richly dight,
Cafting a dimm religious light.
There let the pealing Organ blow,
To the full voic'd Quire below,
In Service high, and Anthems cleer,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Diffolve me into extafies,
And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.
And may at laft
my weary age
Find out the peacefull hermitage,
The Hairy Gown and Moffy Cell,
Where I may fit and rightly fpell
Of every Star that Heav'n doth fhew,
And every Herb that fips the dew
Till old experience do attain
To fomething like Prophetic strain.
These pleasures Melancholy give,
And I with thee will choose to live.
ENCE loathed Melancholy
Of Cerberus, and blackest midnight In Stygian Cave forlorn.
[born, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shreiks, and fights Find out fome uncouth cell, [unholy, Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous And the night-Raven fings; [wings, There under Ebon fhades, and low-brow'd Rocks, As ragged as thy Locks,
In dark Cimmerian defert ever dwell.
But com thou Goddess fair and free,
In Heav'n ycleap'd Euphrofyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus at a birth
With two fifter Graces more
To Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;
Or whether (as fom Sager fing)
The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring,
Zephir with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a Maying,
There on Beds of Violets blew,
And fresh-blown Rofes washt in dew,
Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair,
So buckfom, blith, and debonair.
Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee
Jeft and youthful Jollity,
Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and Wreathed Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple fleek;
Sport that wrincled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his fides.
Com, and trip it as you go
On the light fantastick toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee,
The Mountain Nymph, fweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crue
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free;
To hear the Lark begin his flight,
And finging startle the dull night,
From his watch-towre in the fkies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rife ;
Then to com in fpight of forrow,
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine,
Or the twisted Eglantine.
While the Cock with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darknes thin,
And to the stack, or the Barn dore,
Stoutly ftruts his Dames before,
Oft lift'ning how the Hounds and Horn
Chearly roufe the flumbring morn,
From the fide of fom Hoar Hill,
Through the high wood echoing fhrill.
Som time walking not unfeen
By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,
Right against the Eastern gate,
Where the great Sun begins his state,
Roab'd in flames, and Amber light,
The clouds in thousand Liveries dight,
While the Plowman neer at hand,
Whistles ore the Furrow'd Land,
And the Milkmaid fingeth blithe,
And the Mower whets his fithe,
And every Shepherd tells his tale
Under the Hawthorn in the dale.
Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasures
Whilft the Lantskip round it measures,
Ruffet Lawns, and Fallows Gray,
Where the nibling flocks do ftray,
Mountains on whose barren brest
The labouring clouds do often rest:
Meadows trim with Daifies pide,
Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.
Towers, and Battlements it fees
Boofom'd high in tufted Trees,
Wher perhaps fom beauty lies,
The Cynofure of neighbouring eyes.
Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,
From betwixt two aged Okes,
Where Corydon and Thyrfis met,
Are at their favory dinner set
Of Hearbs, and other Country Meffes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dreffes;
And then in hafte her Bowre fhe leaves,
With Theftylis to bind the Sheaves;
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