But thou, O Nymph, retir'd and coy! The lowliest children of the ground, O say what soft propitious hour When Autumn, friendly to the Muse, When Eve, her dewy star beneath, If such an hour was e'er thy choice, Low whisp'ring through the shade. THE EVENING PRIMROSE. BY DR. LANGHORNE. THERE 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, In Eden's vale an aged hind, At the dim twilight's closing hour, On his time-smoothed staff reclin'd, "Ill-fated flower, at eve to blow," Of splendid suns, or smiling skies. "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, Sweet Philomela pour'd her strain; The Bird of Eve approv'd her flower, And answer'd thus the anxious swain: "Live unseen!" By moon-light shades in valleys green, Still I love the modest mien Of gentle evening fair; and her star-train'd queen. Did'st thou, shepherd, never find In this undistinguish'd shade. Far from the world's infectious view Go, and in day's more dang'rous hour, FOR THE MONUMENT YE E fairy sprites, who oft by dusky eve, When no rude noise disturbs this peaceful grove; O'er cowslips' heads your airy dances weave, A favourite's urn protect with ev'ry spell, That by the conscious moon ye 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; Lest on that breast the turf too hard they tread, Which ne'er knew sorrow, nor e'er tasted pain. |