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,