Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit; As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial loved return! 20 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, 25 And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive Pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or find some ruin, 'midst its dreary dells, 30 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, 35 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. 40 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; 45 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, 50 Thy gentlest influence own, And love thy favourite name! VARIATIONS. Ver 2. May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear, 3. Like thy own solemn springs, 9. While air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat 24. Who slept in flowers the day, 29. Then lead, calm vot'ress, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile, 31. Or upland fallows grey, Reflect its last cool gleam. 33. But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain, Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut, 49. So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipp'd Health, Thy gentlest influence own, And hymn thy favourite name! ODE TO PEACE. O thou, who bad'st thy turtles bear Swift from his grasp thy golden hair, And sought'st thy native skies; When War, by vultures drawn from far, To Britain bent his iron car, 5 And bade his storms arise! Tired of his rude tyrannic sway, Our youth shall fix some festive day, His sullen shrines to burn: But thou who hear'st the turning spheres, 10 What sounds may charm thy partial ears, And gain thy blest return!