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Or that starr’d Ethiope queen that strove
To set her beauty's praise above
The sea nymphs, and their powers offended :
Yet thou art higher far descended ;
The bright hair'd Vesta, long of yore,
To solitary Saturn bore ;
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign
Such mixture was not held a stain)
Oft in glimmering bowers, 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, ftedfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And fable stole of cypress lawn,
Over thy. decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step, and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy wrapt foul fitting in thine eyes ;
There, held in holy paflion ftill,
Forget thyself to marble, till
With a sad leaden downward cast,
Thou fix them on the earth as fait :
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Fait, that oft with Gods doth diet,
And hear the Muses 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 chiefest, with thee bring
Him that yon foars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery wheeled throne,
The cherub Contemplation :
And the mute Silence hift along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song,
In her sweetest, faddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
Gently o’er the accustom'd oak ;
Sweet bird that shun'st the noise of folly,
Mott mufical, most melancholy !
Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among,
I woo to hear thy evening song :
And missing thee, I walk unseen
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 heaven's wide pathless way ;
And oft as if her head she bow'd
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far off Curfew sound,
Over fome wide-water'd shore,
Swinging flow with fullen roar,

Or if the air will not permit,
Some ftill removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room,
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
For from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,


Or the bellman'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


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 manfion in this fleshly nook : And of those daemons 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 scepter'd 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, О fad virgin that thy power
Might raise Mufæus from his bower,
Or bid the foul of Orpheus fing
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 wond'rous horse of brass,

On which the Tartar king did ride ;
And if aught elfe great bards beside
In fage and folemn tunes have sung,
Of tourneys 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 frounc'd as she was went
With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kerchief'd in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling 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 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 honeyed thigh,
That at her flow'ry work doth fing,
And the waters murmuring,
With such concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd feep :


And let some strange mysterious dream,
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid ;
And as I wake sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some spirit to mortals' good,
Or th' unseen Genius of the wood,

But let my due feet never fail'
To walk the studious cloyster's pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antique pillars maffy 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:
Diffolve me into extafies,
And bring all heav'n before mine eyes.

And may at last my weary age,
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mosly cell,
Where I may fit and rightly spell
Of ev'ry star that heav'n doth shew,
And ev'ry herb that sips the dew;
'Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I wizh thee will choose to live. .

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