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194
POEMS.
That own'd the virtuous ring and glafs,
And of the wondrous horfe of brafs,
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if ought elfe great bards befide
In fage and folemn tunes have fung,
Of turneys and of trophies hung,
Offorefts, and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus Night oft fee me in thy pale career,
Till civil-fuited Morn appear,
Not trickt and froun6t as me was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kerchieft in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or ufher'd with a fhower ftill,
When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rufsling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the fun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me goddefs bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And fhadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude axe with heaved ftroke
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in clofe covert by fome brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garifh eye,
While the bee with honied thigh,
That at her flow'ry work doth fing,
And the waters murmuring,