WARTON.

OFT when thy season, sweetest queen,
Has drest the groves in livery green;
When in each fair and fertile field

Beauty begins her bower to build ;
While Evening, veil'd in shadows brown,
Puts her matron-mantle on,

And mists in spreading steams convey
More fresh the fumes of new-shorn hay.

There through the dusk but dimly seen,
Sweet evening objects intervene:
His wattled cotes the shepherd plants,
Beneath her elm the milk-maid chants.
The woodman, speeding home, awhile
Rests him at a shady stile.

Nor wants there fragrance to dispense
Refreshment o'er soothed sense;

my

Nor tangled woodbine's balmy bloom,
Nor grass besprent to breathe perfume:
Nor lurking wild-thyme's spicy sweet
To bathe in dew my roving feet:
Nor wants there note of Philomel,
Nor sound of distant-tinkling bell:
Nor lowings faint of herds remote,

Nor mastiff's bark from bosom❜d cot;

Rustle the breezes lightly borne

Or deep embattel'd ears of corn:

Round ancient elm, with humming noise,

Full loud the chaffer-swarms rejoice.

Meantime, a thousand dyes invest

The ruby chambers of the west!

That all aslant the village tower
A mild reflected radiance pour,
While, with the level-streaming rays
Far seen its arched windows blaze:

And the tall grove's green top is dight
In russet tints, and gleams of light:
So that the gay scene by degrees
Bathes my blithe heart in ecstasies;

And fancy to my ravish'd sight
Portrays her kindred visions bright.
At length the parting light subdues
My soften'd soul to calmer views,
And fainter shapes of pensive joy,
As twilight dawns, my mind employ,
Till from the path I fondly stray
In musings lapt, nor heed the way;
Wandering through the landscape still,
Till melancholy has her fill;

And on each moss-wove border damp,
The glow-worm hangs his fairy lamp.

SHAKSPEARE.

THE moon shines bright;-In such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,
And they did make no noise;—in such a night
Stood Dido, with a willow in her hand,
Upon the wild sea-banks;—in such a night
Medea gather'd the enchanted herb..

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears: soft stillness, and the night,
Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Look, how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold!

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st,

But in its motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim.