With ling'ring pace the parting day retires, And flowly leaves the mountains tops and gilded fpires.

Yon azure cloud, enrob'd with white, Still shoots a gleam of fainter light: At length defcends a browner fhade; At length the glimmʼring objects fade; 'Till all fubmit to Night's impartial reign, And undistinguish'd darkness covers all the plain.

No more the ivy-crowned oak

Refounds beneath the woodman's stroke.

Now Silence holds her folemn fway,
Mute in each bush, and every spray.

Nought but the found of murm'ring rills is

heard,

Or, from the mould'ring tow'r, Night's folitary bird.

THE

THE ROSE-BUD.

SEE, Flavia, see that budding rofe,
How bright beneath the bush it grows;
How fafely there it lurks conceal'd:
How quickly blasted when reveal'd !

The fun, with warm attractive rays,
Tempts it to wanton in the blaze:
A blast descends from eastern skies,
And all its blushing radiance dies.

Then guard, ye fair! your charms divine,
And check the fond defire to fhine
Where Fame's transporting rays allure,
While here more happy, more secure.

7

The breath of fome neglected maid
Shall make you figh you left the shade;
A breath to beauty's bloom unkind,
As, to the rofe, an eastern wind.

THE FAIRIES.

HERE in a cool grot, and moffy cell,
We rural fays and fairies dwell:
Though rarely feen by mortal eye,
When the pale Moon, afcending high,
Darts through yon lines her quiv'ring beams,
We frisk it near these crystal streams.

Her beams, reflected from the wave,
Afford the light our revels crave;
The turf, with daifies broider'd o'er,
Exceeds, we wot, the Parian floor;
Nor yet for artful strains we call,
But liften to the water's fall.

Would you, then, taste our tranquil scene,
Be fure your bofoms be ferene;
Devoid of hate, devoid of ftrife,
Devoid of all that poifons life;
And much it 'vails you, in their place,
To graft the love of human race.

And tread with awe those favour'd bow'rs,
Nor wound the fhrubs, nor bruise the flow'rs.
So may your paths with sweets abound!
So may your couch with rest be crown'd!
But harm betide the wayward swain,
Who dares our hallow'd haunt profane.

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A SHADY VALLEY, NEAR A RUNNING

WATER.

OH! let me haunt this peaceful shade,
Nor let Ambition e'er invade

The tenants of this leafy bow'r,

That shun her paths, and slight her pow'r.

Hither the plaintive halcyon flies
From focial meads and open fkies,
Pleas'd by this rill her course to steer,
And hide her fapphire plumage here.

The trout, be-dropt with crimfon stains,
Forfakes the river's proud domains,
Forfakes the fun's unwelcome gleam,
To lurk within the humble ftream.

And, fure, I heard the Naiad fay, "Flow, flow my ftream, this devious way! "Though lovely foft thy murmurs are, "Thy waters lovely cool and fair.

"" Flow, gentle ftream! nor let the vain "Thy fmall unfully'd ftores difdain; "Nor let the pensive sage repine, "Whose latent course resembles thine."

THE SHEPHERD'S COTTAGE.

MY banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whofe murmur invites one to fleep;

My grottos are fhaded with trees,

And my hills are white-over with sheep.

I fel