ODE VII. (Hail meek-ey'd maiden, clad in sober grey)

Hail meek-ey'd maiden, clad in sober grey, Whose soft approach the weary woodman loves, As homeward bent to kiss his prattling babes, He jocund whistles thro' the twilight groves.

When PHOEBUS sinks behind the gilded hills, You lightly o'er the misty meadows walk, The drooping daisies bathe in honey-dews, And nurse the nodding violet's slender stalk:

The panting Dryads, that in day's fierce heat To inmost bowers and cooling caverns ran, Return to trip in wanton evening-dance, Old SYLVAN too returns, and laughing PAN.

To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair, Light skims the swallow o'er the wat'ry scene, And from the sheep-cotes, and fresh-furrow'd field, Stout plowmen meet to wrestle on the green.

The swain that artless sings on yonder rock, His supping sheep and lengthening shadow spies, Pleas'd with the cool, the calm, refreshful hour, And with hoarse hummings of unnumber'd flies.

Now every passion sleeps; desponding Love, And pining Envy, ever-restless Pride, An holy calm creeps o'er my peaceful soul, Anger and mad Ambition's storms subside.

O modest EVENING, oft' let me appear A wandering votary in thy pensive train, List'ning to every wildly-warbling throat That fills with farewell notes the dark'ning plain.