Soft Sleep, profoundly pleasing power,
  Sweet patron of the peaceful hour! 
  Oh, listen from thy calm abode,
  And hither wave thy magic rod;
  Extend thy silent, soothing sway,
  And charm the canker care away: 
  Whether thou lov’st to glide along,
  Attended by an airy throng
  Of gentle dreams and smiles of joy,
  Such as adorn the wanton boy; 10
  Or to the monarch’s fancy bring
  Delights that better suit a king,
  The glittering host, the groaning plain,
  The clang of arms, and victor’s train;
  Or should a milder vision please,
  Present the happy scenes of peace,
  Plump Autumn, blushing all around,
  Rich Industry, with toil embrown’d,
  Content, with brow serenely gay,
  And genial Art’s refulgent ray. 20

* * * * *

  ODE TO LEVEN WATER.

  On Leven’s banks, while free to rove,
  And tune the rural pipe to love,
  I envied not the happiest swain
  That ever trod the Arcadian plain.

   Pure stream, in whose transparent wave
  My youthful limbs I wont to lave,
  No torrents stain thy limpid source;
  No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
  That sweetly warbles o’er its bed,
  With white, round, polish’d pebbles spread; 10
  While, lightly poised, the scaly brood
  In myriads cleave thy crystal flood;
  The springing trout, in speckled pride,
  The salmon, monarch of the tide,
  The ruthless pike, intent on war,
  The silver eel, and mottled par. 
  Devolving from thy parent lake,
  A charming maze thy waters make,
  By bowers of birch, and groves of pine,
  And edges flower’d with eglantine. 20

   Still on thy banks, so gaily green,
  May numerous herds and flocks be seen,
  And lasses, chanting o’er the pail,
  And shepherds, piping in the dale,
  And ancient faith, that knows no guile,
  And Industry, embrown’d with toil,
  And hearts resolved, and hands prepared,
  The blessings they enjoy to guard.

* * * * *

  ODE TO BLUE-EYED ANN.

  1 When the rough north forgets to howl,
    And ocean’s billows cease to roll;
    When Lybian sands are bound in frost,
    And cold to Nova-Zembla’s lost;
    When heavenly bodies cease to move,
    My blue-eyed Ann I’ll cease to love!

  2 No more shall flowers the meads adorn,
    Nor sweetness deck the rosy thorn,
    Nor swelling buds proclaim the spring,
    Nor parching heats the dog-star bring,
    Nor laughing lilies paint the grove,
    When blue-eyed Ann I cease to love.

  3 No more shall joy in hope be found,
    Nor pleasures dance their frolic round,
    Nor love’s light god inhabit earth,
    Nor beauty give the passion birth,
    Nor heat to summer sunshine cleave,
    When blue-eyed Nanny I deceive.