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Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the bellman's drowsy charm, To bless the doors from nightly harm: Or let my lamp at midnight hour Be seen in some high lonely tow'r, Where I may oft outwatch the Bear, With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere The spirit of Plato to unfold What words, or what vast regions hold Th' 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 powers hath a true consent With planet, or with clement. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptr’d pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelop's line, Or the tale of Troy divine, Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. But, 0 sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Musæus 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 op him that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball and of Algarsife,
And who bad Canace to wife,
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass,
Ou which the Tartar king did ride;
And if aught else great bards beside
In sage and solemu tunes have sung,
Of turneys and of trophies hung,
Of forests and enchanıments 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 flounc'd, as she was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kerchieft in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud;
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the gust hath blownı 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 axe 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 garisb eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flow'ry work doth sing, And the waters 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 mortals 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 choir below, A service high, and anthenis clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear,

Dissolve me into ecstacies,
And bring all heaven 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 every star that heaven doth shew,
And every herb that sips the dew;
Till old Experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.



'Tis said of widow, maid, and wife,
That honour is a woman's life;
Unhappy sex! who only claim
A being in the breath of Fame,
Which tainted, not the quick’ning gales
That sweep Sabæa's spicy vales,
Nor all the healing sweets restore,
That breathe along Arabia's shore.

The trav'ller, if he chance to stray,
May turn uncensur'd to his way;
Polluted streams again are pare,
And deepest wounds admit a cure;

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But woman! no redemption knows,
The wounds of honour never close.

Though distant ev'ry hand to guide,
Nor skill'd in life's tempestuous tide,
If once her feeble bark recede,
Or deviate from the course decreed,
In vain sbe seeks the friendless shore,
Her swifter folly flies before;
The circling ports against her close,
And shut the wand'rer from repose,
'Till, by conflicting waves oppress’d,
Her found'ring pinnace sinks to rest.

Are there no offerings to atone For but a single error!-- None. Though woman is avow'd, of old, No daughter of celestial mould, Her temp’ring not without allay, And form'd but of the finer clay, We challenge from the mortal dame The strength angelic natures claim; Nay more; for sacred stories tell, That e'en immortal angels fell.

Whatever fills the teeming sphere Of humid earth, and ambient air, With varying elements endu'd, Was form'd to fall, and rise renew'd.

The stars no fix'd duration know, Wide oceans ebb, again to flow,

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