by Mr. Joseph Warton



Hail meek-ey'd Maiden, clad in sober grey,
Whose soft approach the weary wood-man loves;
As homeward bent to kiss his prattling babes,
Jocund he whistles through the twilight groves.


When Phæbus sinks behind the gilded hills;
You lightly o'er the misty meadows walk;
The drooping daisies bathe in dulcet dews,
And nurse the nodding violet's tender stalk.


The panting Dryads, that in day's fierce heat
To inmost bow'rs, and cooling caverns ran;
Return to trip in wanton ev'ning dance,
Old Sylvan too returns, and laughing Pan.


To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair,
Light skims the swallow o'er the watry scene;
And from the sheep-cote, and fresh furrow'd-field,
Stout ploughmen meet to wrestle on the green.


The swain, that artless sings on yonder rock,
His supping sheep, and lengthening shadow spies;
Pleas'd with the cool the calm refreshful hour,
And with hoarse humming of unnumber'd flies.


Now ev'ry Passion sleeps: desponding Love,
And pining Envy, ever-restless Pride;
An holy Calm creeps o'er my peaceful soul,
Anger and mad Ambition's storms subside.


O modest EVENING! oft let me appear
A wandering votary in thy pensive train;
Listening to every wildly-warbling note,
That fills with farewel sweet thy darkening plain.