Where I may oft outwatch 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: 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 sceptred 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: And if aught else great bards beside
In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of turneys, and of trophies hung, Of forests, and enchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear. Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appear,
Not trick'd and frounced 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 gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves, With minute 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,
Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke, Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, Or fright them 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 flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring, With such consort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;
And let some strange mysterious Dream Wave at his wings in aery stream Of lively portraiture display'd, Softly on my eyelids laid.
And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high-embower'd roof, With antic pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light: There let the pealing organ blow, To the full voiced quire below, In service high, and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth show, 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.
DRAWN BY RICHARD WESTALL, R.A ENGRAVED BY JOHN ROMNEY: PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE LONDON
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