ODE TO EVENING. 
373 
Whose numbers stealing tnrough % darkening vale 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit 
As, musing slow, I hail 
Thy genial, loved return ! 
For when thy folding-star arising shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 
The fl agrant Hours and Elves 
Who slept in buds the day, 
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. 
