Classic Poem

Thy beauties, Ev'ning, who unmov'd can trace,
When all is calm, and soothing murmurs fill
The hollow vault of air, from bubbling rill,
The mead's soft bleating, and the tuneful race?
Shorn of the beams, that deck'd his flaming face,
Slow sinks the Sun behind yon misty hill;
The much-deserving swain, whose labours till
Earth's genial lap, returns with ling'ring pace.
Far in the gloom of some romantic wood,
Where sounds no mortal step, the Sage sublime
Rapt in high musing feeds on solemn themes:
Immortal life, the first eternal good,
Pure Friendship's laws, th' unfathom'd depth of Time,
By turns all mingle with his rapt'rous dreams.