Thus oft, when we in vain have wished away
The petty pleasures of the gairish day,
Meek eve shuts up the whole usurping host,
(Unbashful dwarfs each glittering at his post,)
And leaves the disencumbered spirit free
To reassume a staid simplicity.

'Tis well, but what are helps of time and place, When wisdom stands in need of nature's grace; Why do good thoughts, invoked or not, descend, Like Angels from their bowers, our virtues to befriend;

If yet To-morrow, unbelied, may say,

I come to open out, for fresh display,

The elastic vanities of yesterday"?

THE leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill, And sky that danced among those leaves, are still; Rest smooths the way for sleep; in field and bower Soft shades and dews have shed their blended pover On drooping eyelid and the closing flower; Sound is there none at which the faintest heart Might leap, the weakest nerve of superstition start; Save where the Owlet's unexpected scream Pierces the ethereal vault; and (mid the gleam

Of unsubstantial imagery, the dream,
From the hushed vale's realities, transferred
To the still lake) the imaginative Bird

Seems, 'mid inverted mountains, not unheard.

Grave Creature!

shines bright

whether, while the moon

On thy wings opened wide for smoothest flight, Thou art discovered in a roofless tower,

Rising from what may once have been a lady's bower;

Or spied where thou sitt'st moping in thy mew
At the dim centre of a churchyard yew;

Or, from a rifted crag or ivy tod

Deep in a forest, thy secure abode,

Thou giv'st, for pastime's sake, by shriek or shout, A puzzling notice of thy whereabout,

May the night never come, nor day be seen, When I shall scorn thy voice or mock thy mien !

In classic ages men perceived a soul Of sapience in thy aspect, heedless Owl! Thee Athens reverenced in the studious grove; And, near the golden sceptre grasped by Jove, His Eagle's favorite perch, while round him sat The Gods revolving the decrees of Fate, Thou, too, wert present at Minerva's side: Hark to that second larum!- far and wide The elements have heard, and rock and cave re

plied.

VIII.

[This Impromptu appeared, many years ago, among the Aathor's poems, from which, in subsequent editions, it was excluded. It is reprinted, at the request of the Friend in whose presence the lines were thrown off.]

THE sun has long been set,

The stars are out by twos and threes,
The little birds are piping yet

Among the bushes and trees;

There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,
And a far-off wind that rushes,

And a sound of water that gushes,

And the cuckoo's sovereign cry

Fills all the hollow of the sky.
Who would go "parading"
In London," and masquerading,"
On such a night of June,

With that beautiful, soft half-moon,
And all these innocent blisses?

On such a night as this is!

IX.

1804.

COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAORDI NARY SPLENDOR AND BEAUTY.

I.

HAD this effulgence disapppeared

With flying haste, I might have sent,

Among the speechless clouds, a look
Of blank astonishment;

But 't is endued with power to stay
And sanctify one closing day,
That frail Mortality may see -
What is?-ah no, but what can be!

Time was when field and watery cove
With modulated echoes rang,

While choirs of fervent Angels sang

Their vespers in the grove;

Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height,
Warbled, for heaven above and earth below,

Strains suitable to both. Such holy rite,
Methinks, if audibly repeated now

From hill or valley, could not move
Sublimer transport, purer love,

Than doth this silent spectacle, the gleam,
The shadow, and the peace supreme!

II.

No sound is uttered, but a deep

And solemn harmony pervades

The hollow vale from steep to steep.
And penetrates the glades.
Far-distant images draw nigh,

Called forth by wondrous potency
Of beamy radiance, that imbues
Whate'er it strikes with gem-like hues
In vision exquisitely clear,

Herds range along the mountain-side;

And glistening antlers are descried,
And gilded flocks appear.

Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve!
But long as godlike wish, or hope divine,
Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe
That this magnificence is wholly thine!
- From worlds not quickened by the sun
A portion of the gift is won;

An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread
On ground which British shepherds tread!

III.

And if there be whom broken ties

Afflict, or injuries assail,

Yon hazy ridges to their eyes

Present a glorious scale,

Climbing, suffused with sunny air,

To stop

-no record hath told where!

And tempting Fancy to ascend,

And with immortal Spirits blend!

Wings at my shoulders seem to play;
But, rooted here, I stand and gaze

On those bright steps that heavenward raise
Their practicable way.

Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad,
And see to what fair countries ye are bound!
And if some traveller, weary of his road,
Hath slept since noontide on the grassy ground
Ye Genii! to his covert speed ;

And wake him with such gentle heed