While the soft evening saddens into night: 380
Tho’ the sweet poet of the vernal groves
Melts all the night in strains of amorous woe.
The shades descend, and midnight o’er the world
Expands her sable wings. Great nature droops
Thro’ all her works. Now happy he whose toil 385
Has o’er his languid powerless limbs diffus’d
A pleasing lassitude: He not in vain
Invokes the gentle deity of dreams.
His powers the most voluptuously dissolve