Designs the blooming wonders of the next.”
Then as we came slowly in, the moon shone behind Craiglockhart hill among the old Scotch firs; he pulled up again, and gave me Collins’ Ode to Evening, beginning—
“If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Thy springs, and dying gales;”
repeating over and over some of the lines, as
“Thy modest ear,
Thy springs, and dying gales.”
“—And marks o’er all
Thy dewy fingers draw