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But thou, O Nymph, retir'd and coy!
To tell thy simple tale?
And lily of the vale.
O say what soft propitious hour
And court thy gentle sway? When Autumn, friendly to the Muse, Shall thy own modest tints diffuse
And shed thy milder day.
When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
And every storm is laid;
Low whisp’ring through the shade. THE EVENING PRIMROSE.
BY DR, LANGHORNE,
are that love the shades of life, And shun the splendid walks of fame; There are that hold it rueful strife,
To risk Ambition's losing game;
That far from Envy's lurid eye,
The fairest fruits of Genius rear; Content to see them bloom and die
In friendship’s small, but genial sphere.
Than vainer flowers though sweeter far,
The Evening Primrose shuns the day; Blooms only to the western star,
And loves its solitary ray.
In Eden's vale ani aged hind,
At the dim twilight's closing hour, On his time-smoothed staff reclin'd,
With wonder view'd the op’ning flower.
“Ill-fated flower, at ere to blow,"
In pity's simple thought, he cries, "Thy bosom must not feel the glow
Of splendid suns, or smiling skies.
Nor thee, the vagrants of the field,
The hamlet's little train behold; Their eyes to sweet oppression yield,
When thine the falling shades unfold.
“Nor thee, the hasty shepherd heeds,
When love has fill'd his heart with cares; For flowers he rifles all the meads,
For waking flowers-hut thine forbears.
* Ah! waste no more that beauteous bloom,
On night's chill shade, that fragrant breath; Let smiling suns those gems illume!
Fair flower, to live unseen is death."
Soft as the voice of vernal gales,
That o'er the bending nieadows blow; Or streams that steal through even vales,
And murmur that they move so slow.
Deep in her unfrequented bower,
Sweet Philomela pour'd her strain; The Bird of Eve approv'd her flower,
And answer'd thus the anxious swain :
Lovely flower, we'll live unseen:
But I love the modest mien,
Still I love the modest mien Of gentle evening fair; and her star-train'd queen.
Did'st thou, shepherd, never find
A FAVOURITE SPANIEL.
BY THE EARL OF CARLISLE.
Ye fairy sprites, who oft by dusky eve,
When no rude noise disturbs this peaceful grove; O'er cowslips' heads your airy dances weave,
Or with your females whisper tales of love;
A favourite's urn protect with ev'ry spell,
here prepare : Nor in the breast the heaving sigh repel,
Nor in the redden'd eye the starting tear.
For ye have seen her at the rise of day,
Fair as the blushing flower, whose name she bore; Try the thick copse, or in the valleys play,
Neglect her not, though all her beauty's o'er.
Lest should some heifer from the neighbouring mead,
Or playful colt, her little tomb profane;
Which ne'er knew sorrow, nor e'er tasted pain.