Evening.

EVENING.

PRoud thus to wait, — each colour to prepare, But wants the art — to paint the blooming fair. Around her neck, in innocence she smiles, And fondly — hides herself in infant wiles. The maid obsequious — scarcely in her arms, Restrains the babe — her slender hold alarms. Choose then this groupe, dispos'd by softest shades And playful win them to their evening beds. But how the mind — the mother to express? Who fondly folds her infant to her breast. A vain attempt — a figure far too fine — A Raphael's hand could scarcely trace each line.

Steal fancy lightly — scarce the curtain by, Nor breathe while sleep — the babes in slumber lie; To the first cause let innocence my mind. How moves the babe? — who forms the human kind. They wake — the light — how joyfully he gues, While fancy hovers as the two she views,