An Epigram Is But A Feeble Thing

Come, Evening, Once Again, Season Of Peace; Return, Sweet Evening, And Continue Long! Methinks I See Thee In The Streaky West, With Matron Step, Slow Moving, While The Night Treads On Thy Sweeping Train; One Hand Employ'd In Letting Fall The Curtain Of Repose On Bird And Beast, The Other Charged For Man With Sweet Oblivion Of The Cares Of Day.

His Wit Invites You By His Looks To Come, But When You Knock, It Never Is At Home.

How Various His Employments Whom The World Calls Idle; And Who Justly In Return Esteems That Busy World An Idler Too!

Words Learn'd By Rote A Parrot May Rehearse, But Talking Is Not Always To Converse, Not More Distinct From Harmony Divine The Constant Creaking Of A Country Sign.

Pity! Religion Has So Seldom Found A Skilful Guide Into Poetic Ground! The Flowers Would Spring Where'er She Deign'd To Stray And Every Muse Attend Her In Her Way.