T.

* * * * *

No. 425.  Tuesday, July 8, 1712.  Budgell.

  ’Frigora mitescunt Zephyris, Ver proterit AEstas
  Interitura, simul
  Pomifer Autumnus fruges effuderit, et mox
  Bruma recurrit iners.’

  Hor.

  Mr.  SPECTATOR,

’There is hardly any thing gives me a more sensible Delight, than the Enjoyment of a cool still Evening after the Uneasiness of a hot sultry Day.  Such a one I passed not long ago, which made me rejoice when the Hour as come for the Sun to set, that I might enjoy the Freshness of the Evening in my Garden, which then affords me the pleasantest Hours I pass in the whole Four and twenty.  I immediately rose from my Couch, and went down into it.  You descend at first by twelve Stone Steps into a large Square divided into four Grass-plots, in each of which is a Statue of white Marble.  This is separated from a large Parterre by a low Wall, and from thence, thro’ a Pair of Iron Gates, you are led into a long broad Walk of the finest Turf, set on each Side with tall Yews, and on either Hand bordered by a Canal, which on the Right divides the Walk from a Wilderness parted into Variety of Allies and Arbours, and on the Left from a kind of Amphitheatre, which is the Receptacle of a great Number of Oranges and Myrtles.  The Moon shone bright, and seemed then most agreeably to supply the Place of the Sun, obliging me with as much Light as was necessary to discover a thousand pleasing Objects, and at the same time divested of all Power of Heat.  The Reflection of it in the Water, the Fanning of the Wind rustling on the Leaves, the Singing of the Thrush and Nightingale, and the Coolness of the Walks, all conspired to make me lay aside all displeasing Thoughts, and brought me into such a Tranquility of Mind, as is I believe the next Happiness to that of hereafter.  In this sweet Retirement I naturally fell into the Repetition of some Lines out of a Poem of Milton’s, which he entitles Il Penseroso, the Ideas of which were exquisitely suited to my present Wandrings of Thought.

    ’Sweet Bird! that shun’st the Noise of Folly,
    Most musical! most melancholy! 
    Thee Chauntress, oft the Woods among,
    I wooe to hear thy Evening Song: 
    And missing thee, I walk unseen
    On the dry smooth-shaven Green,
    To behold the wandring Moon,
    Riding near her highest Noon,
    Like one that hath been led astray,
    Thro’ the Heavn’s wide pathless Way,
    And oft, as if her Head she bow’d,
    Stooping thro’ a fleecy Cloud.

    Then let some strange mysterious Dream
    Wave with his Wings in airy Stream,
    Of lively Portraiture displaid,
    Softly on my Eyelids laid;
    And as I wake, sweet Musick breathe
    Above, about, or underneath,
    Sent by Spirits to Mortals Good,
    Or th’ unseen Genius of the Wood.’