Where'er from time thou court'st relief, E'en humble Harting's cottag'd vale IF ODE TO EVENING. aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, O pensive Eve, to sooth thine ear, Like thy own brawling springs, Thy springs, and dying gales; O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd sun Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing; Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy dark'ning vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit; As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial lov'd return! For when thy folding-star arising shows Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreaths her brows with sedge, The pensive Pleasures sweet, Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; By thy religious gleams. Or, if chill blust'ring winds, or driving rain, That, from the mountain's side, Views wilds, and swelling floods, |