turn, he was visited by his former friend, Johnson, who relates, that there was nothing of disorder discernable in his mind by any but himself; but that he had withdrawn from study, and travelled with no other book than an English Testament, such as children carry to school. When his friend took up the volume, out of curiosity, to see what was the chosen companion of a poet and a man of letters, "I have but one book," said Collins, "but it is the best." He languished for a long while in this unhappy condition, and was at one time confined in an asylum for the recovery of lunatics, but died under the care of his relations at Chichester, in his 36th year.

ODE TO EVENING.

IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, O pensive Eve, to sooth thine ear,
Like thy own brawling springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales;

O nymph reserv'd, 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-ey'd 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 compos'd,

To breathe some soften'd strain,

Whose numbers, stealing through thy dark'ning

vale,

May not unseemly with its stillness suit ;
As, musing slow, I hail

Thy genial lov'd return!

For when thy holding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who slept in buds the day,

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,

And sheds the fresh'ning 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 blust'ring 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.

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!

While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy ling'ring light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
Thy gentlest influence own,

And love thy fav'rite name!

VERSES ON THOMSON'S GRAVE.

The Scene of the following Stanzas is supposed to lie on the Thames, near Richmond.

IN yonder grave a Druid lies,

Where slowly winds the stealing wave!
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise,
To deck its poet's sylvan grave!

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp (a) shall now be laid;
That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds
May love through life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here;
And, while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.

(a) The harp of Æolus, of which a description is given in the Castle of Indolence.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest:

And oft suspend the dashing oar,
To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And, oft as ease and health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening (b) spire,
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.

But thou who own'st that earthly bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail !
Or tears which Love and Pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail!

Yet lives there one whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near!
With him, sweet Bard, may Fancy die;
And Joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd Sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

And see, the fairy valleys fade;

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's Child, again adieu !

The genial (c) meads, assign'd to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom;

(b) Richmond church, in which Thomson was buried. (c) Mr Thomson resided in the neighbourhood of Richmond some time before his death.

There hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress,
With simple hands, thy rural tomb.

Long, long thy stone and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes:
O! vales, and wild woods, shall he say,
In yonder grave your Druid lies!

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove :
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen;
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chase, on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell :

Q