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The fickle pensioners of Morpheus train. 10
But hail thou Goddess, sage and holy,
Hail divinest Melancholy,
Whose saintly visage is too bright
To hit the fense of human sight,
And therefore to our weaker view 15

O'er-laid 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
To set her beauties praise above 20

The Sea-Nymphs, and their pow'rs osfended:
Yet thou art higher far descended,
Thee bright-har'd Vesta long of yore
To solitary Saturn bore;

His daughter me (in Saturn's reign, 25

Such mixture was not held a stain.)
Oft in glimmering bow'rs and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove. 30

Come pensive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, stedfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,

And fable stole of Cyprus lawn, 35

Over thy decent shoulders drawn.

C c Come, Come, but keep thy wonted state,

With even step, and musing gate,

And looks commercing with the skies,

Thy rapt foul sitting in thine eyes: 40

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, 45

Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth diet,

And hears the Muses in a ring

Ay round about Jove's altar sing:

And add to these retired Leisure,

That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; 50

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, 55

'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; 60

Sweet bird that shun'st the noise of folly,

Most musical, most melancholy!

Thee chauntress of the woods among

I woo to hcar thy even-song;

And And missing thee, I walk unseen 65

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 wayt 70

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, 75

Swinging flow with sullen roar;

Or if the air will not permit,

Some still removed place will sit,

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, 85

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 go

The immortal mind that hath forsook

Her mansion in this fleshly nook:

C c 2 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 95

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, 100

Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
But, O fad Virgin, that thy power
, Might raise Musæus from his bower,
Or bid the foul of Orpheus sing 105

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, no

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; 115

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

Thus

Thus night oft fee me in thy palecarreer.

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, 125

While rocking winds are piping loud,

Or usher'd with a shower still,

When the gust hath blown his fill,

Ending on the rustling leaves.

With minute drops from osf the eaves. 130

And when the fun 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, 135

Where the rude ax with heaved stroke

Was never heard the Nymph's to daunt,

Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.

There in close covert by some brook,

Where no profaner eye may look, 140

Hide me from day's garish eye,

While the bee with honied thie,

That at her flow'ry work doth sing,

And the waters murmuring

With such consort as they keep, 145

Entice the dewy-feather'd fleep;

And let some strange misterious dream

Wave at his wings in aery stream

Of

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