The fever from my cheek, and sigh

And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,

Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death, And sheds the freshening dew; and, lovelier

The full new life that feeds thy breath

Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft

With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed.

Now air is hushed, save where the weak

eyed bat

he wont,

And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport

Beneath thy lingering light;

With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;

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 softened strain,

Whose numbers, stealing through thy dark-
ening 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 fragrant Hours, and elves
Who slept in buds the day,

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 favorite name!

WILLIAM COLLING

TO THE EVENING STAR.
STAR that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary laborer free!
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou,
That send'st it from above,
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
Are sweet as hers we love.