Spectator 141 



Thee chantress, oft the woods among, 

 I woo to hear thy evening song : 

 And missing thee, I walk unseen 

 On the dry smooth-shaven green, 

 To behold the wand' ring moon, 

 Riding near her highest noon, 

 I,ike one that hath been led astray, 

 Thro' the heaven's wide pathless way, 

 And oft, as if her head she bow'd, 

 Stooping thro' a fleecy cloud. 



" Then let some strange mysterious dream 

 Wave with his wings in airy stream, 

 Of lively portraiture displayed, 

 Softly on my eyelids laid ; 

 And as I wake, sweet music breathe 

 Above, about, or underneath , 

 Sent by spirits to mortals good, 

 Or th' unseen Genius of the Wood." 



I reflected then upon the sweet vicissitudes of 

 night and day, on the charming disposition of 

 the seasons, and their return again in a per- 

 petual circle ; and oh ! said I, that I could from 

 these my declining years return again to my 

 first spring of youth and vigor ; but that, alas ! 

 is impossible. All that remains within my power 

 is to soften the inconveniences I feel, with an 

 easy contented mind, and the enjoyment of 

 such delights as this solitude affords me. In 

 this thought I sate me down on a bank of 

 flowers and dropped into a slumber, which 

 whether it were the effect of fumes and vapors, 



