And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive Pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams.
Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut, That from the mountain’s side, Views wilds, and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover’d spires; And hears their simple bell, and marks o’er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil.
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy lingering light;
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, And rudely rends thy robes;
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own, And love thy favourite name!
W. Collins.