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These delights if thou canst give,
BY THE SAME.
Hence, vain deluding joys,
The brood of Folly, without father bred,
How little you bestead,
Dwell in some idle brain,
The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. But hail, thou goddess sage and holy! Hail, divinest Melancholy ! Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O’erlaid 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 beauty's praise above The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended: Yet thou art higher far descended : Thee 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 inmost grove, While yet there was no fear of Jove. Come, pensive nun, devote and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of Cyprus 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 rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: 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, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring
Over some wide-water'd shore,
But, 0 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 from 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 anght 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 flounced as she was wont With the Attic boy to hunt, But kerchieft 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.