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But thou, O Nymph, retired and coy!
The lowliest children of the ground,
O say what soft propitious hour
When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
And every storm is laid;
If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Low whispering through the shade.
THE EVENING PRIMROSE.
BY DR. LANGHORNE.
THERE are that love the shades of life,
That far from Envy's lucid 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
And loves its solitary ray.
In Eden's vale an aged hind
At the dim twilight's closing hour, On his time-smooth'd staff reclined, With wonder view'd the opening flower.
"Ill-fated flower, at eve to blow,
"Nor thee, the vagrants of the field,
"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-but 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 meadows blow; Or streams that steal through even vales, And murmur that they move so slow;
Deep in her unfrequented bower,
By moon-light shades in valleys green,
Of our pleasure deem not lightly,
But I love the modest mien,
Still I love the modest mien
Of gentle evening fair, and her star-trained queen.
Didst thou, shepherd, never find
Has thy cottage never known
While, all disarm'd, the cares of day
Steal through the falling gloom away?
In this undistinguish'd shade.
Far from the world's infectious view
Thy little virtues safely blew;
Go, and in day's more dangerous hour,
THE MONUMENT OF ROSE;
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 every spell,
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,
Lest on that breast the turf too hard they tread,