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ENCE, vain deluding joys, The brood of Folly, without father bred How little you bested, Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys: Dwell in some idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy shape possess, As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sun-beams, Or likest hov'ring dreams, The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. But hail, thou goddess sage and holy! Hail, divinest Melancholy Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight; And, therefore, to our weaker view, O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's hue; Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might beseem : Or that starr'd Ethiop queen, that strove For other beauties praise above The sea-nymphs, and these powers offended : Yet thou art higher far descended; Thee bright-haird Westa, long of yore, To solitary Saturn bore; His daughter she (in Saturn's reign, -Such mixture was not held a stain); Oft in glimmering bowers and glade He met her, and in sweet shade Of woody Ida's inmost grove, While yet there was no fear of Jove. Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober and stedfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train,

And sable stole of Cyprus lawn Over thy decent shoulders drawn; Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step and musing gait, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy 'rapt soul sitting in thine eyes; There held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad leaden downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast, And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, And hear the muses in a ring a Ay round about Jove's altar sing; And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; But first, and chiefest, with thee bring, Him that yon' soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The Cherub Contemplation ; And the mute silence hist along, *Less Philomel will deign a song In her sweetest, saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, Gently o'er th’ accustom'd oak ; Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chantress of the woods among, I woo to hearthy evening song; . And, missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green, To behold the wand'ring moon, Riding near her highest noon ; Like one that had been led astray Through the heav'ns' wide pathless way; And oft, as if her head she bow’d, Stooping thro' a fleecy cloud, Oft on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfeu sound;

Over some wide water'd shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar.
Or if the air will not permit,
Some still removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom;
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowsy charm,
To bless the door from nightly harm.
Or let my lamp, at midnight hour,
Be seen in some high lonely tower,
Where I may oft outwatch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
The spirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds, or what vast regions hold
The immortal mind, that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook;
And of those demons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true consent
With planet or with element.
Sometimes let gorgeous Tragedy
In scepter'd pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes' or Pelops' line,
Or the tale of Troy divine;
Or what (though rare) of later age,
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
But O ! sad virgin' that thy power.
Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as, warbled to the string, -
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made hell grant what love did seek;
Or call up him that left half told
The story of Cambriscan bold,
Of Camball and of Algarsife,
And who had Canacé to wife;

That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if ought else great bards beside
In sage and solid time have sung
Of turneys and of trophies hung,
Of forests and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
Till civil suited Morn appear,
Not trick'd and frounc'd as she was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt;
But kercheft in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud ;
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the gust has blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak :
Where the rude ax, with heaved stroke,
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt;
There in close covert, by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye;
While the bee with honey'd thigh,
That at her flow'ry work doth sing,
And the waler's murmuring,
With such concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy feather'd sleep;
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eyelids laid;
And as I wake, sweet music breathe,
Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by some spirit to mortal's good, - Or th’ unseen genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloister's pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antique pillars massy proof; And storied windows, richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow, To the full voic’d quire below, In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, thro' mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all heav'n before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of ev'ry star that heav'n doth shew, And ev'ry herb that sips the dew ; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strainThese pleasures, Melancholy, give, And I with thee will choose to live.

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HPNo. loathed Melancholy
Of Cerberus, and blackest midnight born 1
In Stygian cave forlorn,
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights
unholy 1 -
Find out some uncouth cell,
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,
And the night raven sings;
There, under cbon shades and low-brow'd rocks,
As ragged as thy locks, -
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

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