©to t0 inning. 
Collins. 
I F aught of oaten stop or pastoral song, 
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, 
Like thy own brawling springs, 
Thy springs, and dying gales; 
0 Nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair’d sun 
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, 
With brede ethereal wove, 
O’erhang his wavy bed: 
Now air is hush’d, save where the weak-eyed bat, 
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, 
Or where the beetle winds 
His small but sullen horn, 
As oft he rises ’midst the twilight path, 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum; 
Now teach me, maid composed, 
To breathe some soften’d strain, 
