Ode to Evening

Thou tranquil daughter of the day! On whose fair face autumnal Zephyrs play; O'er whose serene unclouded eye Sol sheds the mildest lustre of the sky. Thee, undisturb'd, oh! let me hail, And tread the carpet of thy verdant vale; Near which, with bonnet wheaten-bound, Sits Ceres listening to the sheep-bell's sound; Or let me woo thee by the stream Obliquely gilded by the western beam, While flies and gnats unnumber'd throng, And faintly murmur no unpleasing song. Now to enjoy the silent hour The lark descends from his aerial tower. Apollo is reclin'd to rest Upon the down of Amphitrite's breast. The bird, who loves the coming night, Hoots querulous, and flaps his wing for flight. With wheeling plume the bat flies by, And mocks th' imperfect motion of the eye. The buzzing chafer here and there Spreads his gauze wing, and spins along the air. But dark-eyed night (so Heaven ordains) Comes nodding on, and blackens all the plains. The pleasing scenes, which Nature drew, Are clouded o'er, and vanish'd from the view. The splendid morn, the noon of day, And all the shades of evening are away; But soon the splendid morn, again Shall radiate all the firmamental plain, And soon the sun's meridian ray, Zenith'd on high, shall give us back the day; And evening! thou, with aspect bland, Shalt pour thy lengthening shadow o'er the land. Such is thy pictur'd life, oh man! Which daily dies, and fades as it began. Thy infant morn shall sink away, Thy noon of youth, and evening age decay, Then death shall wrap thee in his urn, For dust thou wert, and shalt to dust return.