The fickle penfioners of Morpheus train. 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 10 15 20 The Sea-Nymphs, and their pow'rs offended: Thee bright-har'd Vesta long of yore 25 To folitary Saturn bore; His daughter fhe (in Saturn's reign, All in a robe of darkest grain, Cc 30 35 Come, Come, but keep thy wonted state, 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, Ay round about Jove's altar fing: Him that yon foars on golden wing, 40 45 50 55 . XIV. Like one that had been led aftray Through the Heav'n's wide pathless way, 65 70 75 Some still removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room 80 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: 85 Be feen in fome high lonely tow'r, What worlds, or what vaft regions hold Her mansion in this fleshly nook: Cc 2 And of those Demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground, But, O fad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Mufæus from his bower, Or bid the foul of Orpheus fing 95 100 105 Such notes, as warbled to the ftring, And made Hell grant what love did seek. Of Camball, and of Algarfife, The story of Cambuscan bold, And who had Canace to wife, That own'd the virtuous ring and glass, On which the Tartar king did ride; 110 115 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. 120 Thus Thus night oft fee me in thy pale carreer. Till civil-fuited morn appear, Not trickt and frounct as fhe was wont But kercheft in a comely cloud, 125 While rocking winds are piping loud, Or ufher'd with a fhower ftill, When the guft hath blown his fill, With minute drops from off the eaves. Where the rude ax with heaved stroke 130 135 140 And let fome ftrange mifterious dream. Of |