48
ODE TO EVENING.
If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,[1]
Like thy own brawling springs,[2]
Thy springs, and dying gales; 4
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,[1]
Like thy own brawling springs,[2]
Thy springs, and dying gales; 4
O nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:
Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat[3]
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing; 10
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing; 10
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
Variations