But firft 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, 55
'Less Philomel will deign a fong,
In her sweetest faddeft plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, Gently o're th' accustom❜d oke;
Sweet bird that shunn'ft the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee chauntress oft, the woods among,
I woo to hear thy even-fong;
And, miffing thee, I walk unfeen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandring moon
Riding neer her highest noon,
Like one that had bin led aftray,
Through the Heav'ns wide pathles way;
And oft, as if her head fhe bow'd, 71
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rifing ground,
I hear the far-off curfeu found,
Over fome wide-water'd fhoar,
Swinging flow with fullen roar;
Or if the air will not permit,
Som still removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, 80 Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the belmans drowfie charm
To bless the dores from nightly harm:
Or let my lamp at midnight hour,
Be seen in fom high lonely towr,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unfphear
The fpirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds, or what vast regions hold
The immortal mind that hath forfook 91
Her manfion in this fleshly nook:
And of those Dæmons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whofe power hath a true confent
With planet, or with element.
Som time let gorgeous Tragedy
In fcepter'd pall com sweeping by,
Prefenting Thebs, or Pelops line,
Or the tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the buskind stage.
But, O fad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musfæus from his bower,
Or bid the foul of Orpheus fing
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
The story of Cambufcan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarfife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous hors of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride; 115
And if ought els great Bards befide
In fage and folemn tunes have fung,
Of turneys, and of trophies hung;
Of forefts, and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus Night oft fee me in thy pale career
Till civil-fuited Morn appear,
Not trickt and frounc't as she was wont
With the Attick boy to hunt,
But cherchef't in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or ufher'd with a fhower ftill,
When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rufsling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the Sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me goddefs bring
*Chaucer. See bis Squires Tale.
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And fhadows brown that Sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oake,
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 fome brook,
Where no profaner eye may look, 140
Hide me from Day's garish eie,
While the bee with honied thie,
That at her flowry work doth fing,
And the waters murmuring,
With fuch confort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;
And let fom ftrange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portrature difplay'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid.
And as I wake, fweet mufick breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by fom spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unfeen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the ftudious cloyfters pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antick pillars maffy proof,
And ftoried windows richly dight,
There let the pealing organ blow
To the full voic'd quire below,
In service high, and anthems cleer,
with sweetness through mine ear,
Diffolve me into extafies,
And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.
Find out the peacefull hermitage,
The hairy gown, and moffy cell,
Where I may fit and rightly spell 170
Of every ftar that Heav'n doth fhew,
And every herb that fips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To fomthing like prophetick strain.
These pleasures Melancholy give, 175
And I with thee will choose to live.
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