30. 31. Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, Sweet babe, in thy face As thy softest limbs I feel, O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast Oh the cunning wiles that creep ODE ON THE SPRING Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, Their gather'd fragrance fling. CLXXXI. 5 10 15 W. Blake CLXXXII. 5 10 Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech With me the Muse shall sit, and think Beside some water's rushy brink 15 To Contemplation's sober eye And they that creep, and they that fly, Alike the Busy and the Gay But flutter thro' life's little day, In Fortune's varying colours drest: Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Methinks I hear in accents low Thy joys no glittering female meets, 25 30 335 40 45 50 T. Gray 32. 33. THE POPLAR FIELD CLXXXIII. The poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade! The blackbird has fled to another retreat 5 Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat; 10 My fugitive years are all hasting away TO A MOUSE W. Cowper On turning her up in her nest, with the plough, November, 1785 Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O what a panic's in thy breastie ! 15 20 CLXXXIV. Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee 5 I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's winds ensuin' Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 34. 35. CLXXXV A WISH Mine be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Around my ivied porch shall spring The village-church among the trees, S. Rogers 5 10 15 CLXXXVI. ODE TO EVENING If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song Thy springs, and dying gales; O Nymph reserved,-while now the bright-hair'd sun 5 With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed; Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum,- To breathe some soften'd strain 10 15 |