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Of heap'd Elysian flow'rs, and hear
Such strains as would have won the ear
Of Pluto to have quite set free
His half-regain'd Eurydi e.
These delights, if thou canst give,
Mirth, with thee i mean to live.

Hence, vain delud ng 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 hrain,
And fancies fond w th gaudy fhapes poffels,

As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the sun-beams,

Or likeft hovering dreams,
The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.

But hail, thou Goddess, sage and holy !
Hail, divinest Melancholy !
Whose faintly visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human fight,
And therefore to our weaker vien
O’erlaid with black, staid Wildon's hue;
Black, but such as in esteem
Prince Memnon's fifter might heleem;
Or that farr’d Ethiop queen that trove
To set her beauty's praise ahove
The sea nymphs, and teir row'rs offended;
Yet thou art higher far descended :

Thee, bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore
To folitary Saturn bore ;
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign
Soch mixture was not held a stain).
Oft in glimmering bow'rs and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida's inmoft grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove.
Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, 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 mufing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt Soul fitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy passion still,
Forget thyself to marble, till s '
With a sad leaden downward caft
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 hears the mụses in a ring
Aye round about Jove's altar fing:
And add to these retired Leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure :
But first, and chiefeft, with thee bring,
Him that yon foars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wbeeled throne,
The cherub Contemplation' ;

And the mute Silence hift along,
'Lest Philomel will deign a song,
In her sweetest, faddeft plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
Gently o'er th' accustom'd oak;
Sweet bird, that shunn'ft th' noise of Folly,
Most musical, most melancholy !
Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among,
I woo, to hear thy even-fong;
And, missing thee, I walk unseen,
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandering moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heav'n's wide pathlefs way;
And oft as if her head Me bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft, on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfeu found,
Over some wide water'd fhore,
Swinging Now, 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,
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,
Be seen in some high lonely tow'r,

Where 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 forfook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook:
And of those demons that are found
In fire, air, food, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true consent
With planet, or with element,
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In sceptred 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, O sad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Mufæus from his bower,
Or bid the foul of Orpheus ling
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 Algarfite,
And who had Caracé to wife,
That own’d the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse ot brafs,
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if aught elfe great Bards beside
In fage and folemn tunes have fung,
Of turneys and of trophies hung,

Of forests and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the car.
Thus, Night, oft fee me in thy pale career,
Till civil-suited Morn appear,
Not trick'd and frounc'd as the was wont,
With the Attic boy to hunt,
But 'kerchief'd in a comely cloud.
While rocking winds are piping louds
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the ruttling 'leaves, .
With minute drops from off the caves.
And when the sun begins to Bing
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 pever heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright thein 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 honied thigh,
That at her fow'ry work doth fing,
And the waters murmuring,
With such confort as they keep,
Entice the dewy feather'd @rep;
And let fome strange my fterious dream
Wave at his wings in æry stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid :

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