ODE to NIGHT.

T

HE bufy cares of day are done;

In yonder weftern cloud the fun

Now fets, in other worlds to rise,

And glad with light the nether skies.

With ling'ring pace the parting day retires, And flowly leaves the mountain tops, and gilded fpires.

Yon azure cloud, enrob'd with white,
Still fhoots a gleam of fainter light:
At length defcends a browner fhade;

At length the glimʼring objects fade :
Till all fubmit to NIGHT's impartial reign,
And undistinguish'd darkness covers all the plain.

No more the ivy-crowned oak

Refounds beneath the wood-man's ftroke.
Now Silence holds her folemn fway;
Mute is each bufh, and ev'ry spray :

Nought but the found of murm'ring rills is heard,

Or from the mould'ring tow'r, NIGHT's folitary bird.

Hail

Hail facred hour of peaceful reft!
Of pow'r to charm the troubled breast!
By thee the captive slave obtains

Short refpite from his galling pains;
Nor fighs for liberty, nor native foil;

But for a while forgets his chains, and fultry toil.

No horrors haft thou in thy train,

No fcorpion lash, no clanking chain.
When the pale murd'rer round him spies

A thousand grifly forms arise,

When shrieks and groans arouse his palfy'd fear, 'Tis guilt alarms his foul, and confcience wounds his ear.

The village fwain whom Phillis charms,
Whose breast the tender paffion warms,
Wishes for thy all-fhadowing veil,

To tell the fair his lovefick tale :

Nor lefs impatient of the tedious day,
She longs to hear his tale, and figh her foul away.

Oft by the covert of thy fhade

LEANDER Woo'd the THRACIAN maid; Through foaming feas his paffion bore, Nor fear'd the ocean's thund'ring roar. The confcious virgin from the fea-girt tow'r

Hung out the faithful torch to guide him to her bow'r.

Oft

Oft at thy filent hour the fage
Pores on the fair inftructive page ;
Or rapt in mufings deep, his foul
Mounts active to the starry pole:

There pleas'd to range the realms of endless night,
Numbers the stars, or marks the comet's devious light.

Thine is the hour of converse sweet,
When sprightly wit and reafon meet:
Wit, the fair bloffom of the mind,
But fairer ftill with reafon join'd,

Such is the feaft thy focial hours afford,

When eloquence and GRANVILLE join the friendly board.

GRANVILLE, whofe polifh'd mind is fraught
With all that ROME OF GREECE e'er taught;
Who pleases and instructs the ear,

When he affumes the critic's chair,

Or from the STAGYRITE OF PLATO draws

The arts of civil life, the fpirit of the laws.

O let me often thus employ

The hour of mirth and focial joy!

And glean from GRANVILLE's learned store

Fair fcience and true wisdom's lore.

Then will I still implore thy longer stay,

Nor change thy feftive hours for funshine and the day.

Written

XXX XXXXXX

Written upon leaving a FRIEND'S House

in WALES.

By the Rev. Dr. M.

HE winds were loud, the clouds deep-hung ;
And dragg'd their sweepy trains along

The dreary mountain's fide;

When, from the hill, one look to throw
On Towy's rambling flood below,
I turn'd my horse-and figh❜d.

But foon the gufts of fleet and hail
Flew thick across the darken'd vale,
And blurr'd the face of day:
Forlorn and fad, I jogg'd along ;

And tho' Tom cry'd, You're going wrong,"
Still wander'd from my way.

The scenes, which once my fancy took,

And

my

aw'd mind with wonder ftruck,

Pafs'd unregarded, all!

Nor black Trecarris' fteepy height,
Nor wafte Trecastle gave delight;

Nor clamorous Hondy's fall.

Did the bleak day then give me pain?
The driving fnow, or pelting rain,
Or fky with tempefts fraught?
No! these unheeded rag'd around :
Nought in them so much Mine I found,
As claim'd one wandering thought.

Far other cares engrofs'd my mind,
Cares for the joys I left behind,

In * Newton's happy groves!

Yet not because its woods difclofe
Or grots or lawns more fweet than those
Which Pan at noon-day loves;

But that, befide its focial hearth
Dwells every joy, which youthful mirth
Or ferious age can claim :

The man too whom my foul first knew,
To virtue and to honour true;
And friendship's facred name.

O Newton, could these penfive lays
In worthy numbers scan thy praise,
Much gratitude would fay;
But that the Muse, ingenuous maid,
Of flattery feems fo much afraid,

She'll scarce her duty pay.

Brecknock, Oct. 16. 1749.

* Newton is the name of a feat belonging to Sir John

Price.