The fickle penfioners of Morpheus train.
But hail thou Goddess, fage and holy,
Hail divinest Melancholy,

Whose faintly visage is too bright

To hit the sense of human fight,

And therefore to our weaker view

O'er-laid with black, ftaid wifdom's hue;

Black, but fuch as in esteem

Prince Memnon's fifter might beseem,

Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove

To set her beauties praise above

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The Sea-Nymphs, and their pow'rs offended:
Yet thou art higher far descended,

Thee bright-har'd Vesta long of yore

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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 shades
Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove.
Come penfive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, ftedfast, and demure,

All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And fable ftole of Cyprus lawn,
Over thy decent fhoulders drawn.

Cc

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Come,

Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step, and musing gate,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt foul fitting in thine eyes :
There held in holy passion still,

Forget thyfelf to marble, till

Thou fix them on the earth as fast:

With a fad leaden downward caft

And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet,
Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring

Ay round about Jove's altar fing:
And add to thefe retired Leifure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure;
But first, 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,

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XIV.
And miffing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-fhaven green,
To behold the wand'ring moon,
Riding near her highest noon,

Like one that had been led aftray

Through the Heav'n's wide pathless way,
And oft, as if her head fhe bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rifing ground,
I heard the far-off Curfeu found,
Over fome wide-water'd fhore,
Swinging flow with fullen roar;
Or if the air will not permit,

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Some still removed place will fit,

Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,

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Far from all refort of mirth,

Save the cricket on the hearth,

Or the belman's drowsy charm,

To blefs the doors from nightly harm:
Or let my lamp at midnight hour,

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Be feen in fome 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 vaft regions hold
The immortal mind that hath forfook

Her mansion in this fleshly nook:

Cc 2

And of those Demons that are found

In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true confent
With planet, or with element.
Sometime let gorgeous tragedy
In scepter'd pall come fweeping 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 fad Virgin, that thy power

Might raise Mufæus from his bower,

Or bid the foul of Orpheus fing

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Such notes, as warbled to the ftring,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,

And made Hell grant what love did seek.
Or call up him that left half told

Of Camball, and of Algarfife,

The story of Cambuscan bold,

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 elfe great bards befide

In fage and folemn tunes have sung,

Of turneys and of trophies hung,

Of forests, and inchantments drear,

Where more is meant than meets the ear.

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Thus

Thus night oft fee me in thy pale carreer.

Till civil-fuited morn appear,

Not trickt and frounct as fhe was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,

But kercheft in a comely cloud,

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While rocking winds are piping loud,

Or ufher'd with a fhower ftill,

When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the ruffling 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 shadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of pine, or monumental oak,

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 fome brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye,

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And let fome ftrange mifterious dream.
Wave at his wings in aery stream

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