Of heap'd Elyfian flow'rs, and hear Such ftrains as would have won the ear Of Pluto to have quite fet free His half-regain'd Eurydice.
These delights, if thou canft give, Mirth, with thee i mean to live.
IL PENSEROSO.
HENCE, vain delud ng joys,
The brood of Folly, without father bred, How little you befted,
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys? Dwell in fome idle brain,
And fancies fond w th gaudy shapes poffefs, As thick and numberlefs
As the gay motes that people the fun-beams, Or likeft hovering dreams,
The fickle penfioners of Morpheus' train. But hail, thou Goddess, fage and holy! Hail, divineft Melancholy!
Whofe faintly vifage is too bright To hit the fenfe of human fight,
And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, ftaid Wifdom's hue; Black, but fuch as in esteem
Prince Memnon's fifter might befeem; Or that farr'd Ethiop queen that ftrove
To fet her beauty's praise above
The sea nymphs, and their pow'rs offended; Yet thou art higher far descended:
Thee, bright-hair'd Vefta, long of yore To folitary Saturn bore;
His daughter fhe (in Saturn's reign Such mixture was not held a stain). Oft in glimmering bow'rs and glades He met her, and in fecret fhades
Of woody Ida's inmoft grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove. Come, penfive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, ftedfaft, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And fable stole of Cyprus lawn, Over thy decent fhoulders drawn. Come, but keep thy wonted ftate, With even step and mufing gait, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt foul fitting in thine eyes: There held in holy paffion ftill, Forget thyfelf to marble, till
With a fad leaden downward caft
Thou fix them on the earth as fast:
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Faft, that oft with Gods doth diet,
And hears the mufes in a ring
Aye round about Jove's altar fing: And add to these retired Leifure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure : But firft, and chiefeft, with thee bring, Him that yon foars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The cherub Contemplation;
And the mute Silence hift along, 'Left Philomel will deign a fong, In her fweeteft, faddeft plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, Gently o'er th' accuftom'd oak;
Sweet bird, that shunn'ft th' noife of Folly, Moft mufical, most melancholy!
Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-fong; And, miffing thee, I walk unseen, On the dry fmooth-fhaven green, To behold the wandering moon, Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led aftray Through the heav'n's wide pathlefs way; And oft as if her head fhe bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft, on a plat of rifing ground, I hear the far-off curfeu found, Over fome wide water'd fhore, Swinging flow, with fullen roar: Or, if the air will not permit, Some ftill removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all refort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the belman's drowly charm, To blefs the doors from nightly harm: Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, Be feen in fome high lonely tow'r,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, With thrice great Hermes, or unfphere The fpirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds, or what vaft regions hold The immortal mind that hath forfook Her manfion in this fleshly nook: And of thofe demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whofe power hath a true confent With planet, or with element. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In fceptred pall come fweeping by, Prefenting 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, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Mufæus from his bower, Or bid the foul of Orpheus fing Such notes, as warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, And made Hell grant what Love did feek: Or call up him that left half-told
The ftory of Cambuscan bold; Of Camball, and of Algarfife,
And who had Canacé to wife,
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass, And of the wondrous horfe of brafs, On which the Tartar king did ride; And if aught elfe great Bards befide In fage and folemn tunes have fung, Of turneys and of trophies hung,
Of forefts and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus, Night, oft fee me in thy pale career, Till civil-fuited Morn appear,
Not trick'd and froune'd as she was wont, With the Attic boy to hunt,
But 'kerchief'd in a comely cloud. While rocking winds are piping loud, Or ufher'd with a fhower full, When the guft hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves. And when the fun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And fhadows brown, that Sylvan loves, Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude ax, with heaved ftroke, Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. There in close covert, by fome brook, Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from Day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flow'ry work doth fing, And the waters murmuring, With fuch comfort as they keep, Entice the dewy feather'd fleep; And let fome strange myfterious dream Wave at his wings in æry ftream Of lively portraiture difplay'd, Softly on my eye-lids laid:
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