fith follows close behind,
And spreads his dusky pinions to the wind.
Athwart the sky in scatter'd bands they range
From shape to shape, transform'd in endless change;
Then piece meal torn, in ragged portions stray,
Or thinly spreading, slowly melt away.
A softer brightness covers all below;
Hill, dale, and wood, in mellow'd colour's glow.
High tow'rs the whiten'd rock in added strength;
The brown heath shews afar its dreary length.
The winding river glitters on the vale;
And gilded trees wave in the passing gale.
Upon the ground each black'ning shadow lies,
And hasty darkness o'er the valley flies.
Wide sheeting shadows travel o'er the plain,
And swiftly close upon the varied scene.
Return, O lovely moon! and look from high,
All stately riding in thy motled sky,
Yet, O thy beams in hasty visits come!
As swiftly follow'd by the fleeting gloom.
O Night! thy smiles are short, and short thy shade;
Thou art a freakish friend, and all unstay'd:
Yet from thy varied changes who are free?
Full many an honest friend resembles thee.
Then let my doubtful footsteps darkling stray,
Thy next fair beam will set me on my way:
E'en take thy freedom, whether rough or kind,
I came not forth to quarrel with the wind.

TO FEAR.

O thou! before whose haggard eyes
A thousand images arise,
Whose forms of horror none may see,
But with a soul disturb'd by thee!
Wilt thon for ever haunt mankind,
And glare upon the darken'd mind!
Whene'er thou enterest a breast,
Thou robb'st it of its joy and rest;
And terrible, and strange to tell,
On what that mind delights to dwell.
The ruffian's knife with reeking blade,
The stranger murder'd in his bed:
The howling wind, the raging deep,
The sailor's cries, the sinking ship:
The awful thunder breaking round:
The yauning gulf, the rocking ground:
The precipice, whose low'ring brow
O'erhangs the horrid deep below;
And tempts the wretch, worn out with strife,
Of worldly cares, to end his life.

But when thou raisest to the fight
Unearthly forms that walk the night,
The chilly blood, with magic art,
Runs backward on the stoutest heart.
Lo! in his post the soldier stands[See Spectator, No. 12.]!
The deadly weapon in his hands.
In front of death he rushes on,
Renown with life is cheaply won,
Whilst all his soul with ardour burns,
And to the thickest danger turns.
But see the man alone, unbent,
A church-yard near, and twilight spent,
Returning late to his abode,
Upon an unfrequen