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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'n's wide pathless way,
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rising ground,
I heard the far-off Curfeu sound,
Over some wide-water'd shore,

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Swinging flow with fullen 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,

80 Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the belman's drowsy charm, To bless the doors from nightly harm: Or let my lamp at midnight hour, i Be seen in some high lonely tow'r, Whère I may oft out-watch 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:

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And

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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.
Sometime 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 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 up him that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That own’d the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride;

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And if ought else great bards beside
In sage and folemn tunes have sung,
Of turneys and of trophies hung,
Of forests, and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear. 120

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Thus night oft see me in thy pale carreer.
Till civil-suited morn appear,
Not trickt and frounct 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 guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the ruslling leaves.
With m inute 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,
here the rude ax with heaved stroke

is never heard the Nymph's to daunt, oftright them from their hallow'd haunt. ere in close covert by some brook, ere no profaner eye may look,

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e me from day's garish eye,
le the bee with honied thie,

t at her flow'ry work doth fing,
me the waters murmuring
h such consort as they keep,

145 ce the dewy-feather'd sleep;

let some strange misterious dream Wav

ve at his wings in aery stream

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While the

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Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid.

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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 cloysters pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antic pillars mally proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light.

160 There let the pealing organ blow, To the full voic'd quire below, In service high, and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into extasies,

- 165 And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mosly cell, Where I may fit and rightly spell

170 Of every star that Heav'n 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.

A R

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XV.

A R G A D E S. Part of an Entertainment presented to the Countess Dow

ager of Derby, at Harefield, by some noble persons of her family, who appear on the scene in pastoral habit, moving toward the seat of state, with this Song.

I. S O N G.
I OOK Nymphs, and Shepherds look,
U What sudden blaze of majesty
Is that which we from hence descry,
Too divine to be mistook :

This, this is she
To whom our vows and wishes bend;
Here our solemn search hath end.

Her

Wem

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En

Fame, that her high worth to raise,

m d erst so lavish and profuse, may justly now accuse etraction from her praise ; els than half we find expreft,

Ivy bid conceal the rest.
Mark

· what radiant state she spreads,
"cle round her shining throne,

ing her beams like silver threads; s, this is she alone, .

In circle round Shootingh

Sitting

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