84
The ART of
B. III.
To trace the horrors of the solemn wood,
380While the soft evening saddens into night:
Tho' the sweet poet of the vernal groves
Melts all the night in strains of amorous woe.
The shades descend, and midnight o'er the world
Expands her sable wings. Great nature droops
380Thro' all her works. Now happy he whose toil
Has o'er his languid powerless limbs diffus'd
A pleasing lassitude: He not in vain
Invokes the gentle deity of dreams.
His powers the most voluptuously dissolve
390In soft repose: On him the balmy dews
Of sleep with double nutriment descend.
But would you sweetly waste the blank of night
In deep oblivion; or on fancy's wings
Visit the paradise of happy dreams,
2
And
