Twinkle the streams, and woods look tip'd with gold,
To feek fome level mead, and there invoke
Old Midnight's fifter Contemplation fage,
(Queen of the rugged brow, and ftern-fixt eye)
To lift my foul above this little earth,
This folly-fetter'd world: to purge my ears,
That I may hear the rolling planet's fong,
And tuneful turning fpheres: if this debarr'd,
The little Fayes that dance in neighbouring dales,
Sipping the night-dew, while they laugh and love,
Shall charm me with aërial notes.-
-As thus
I wander mufing, lo, what aweful forms
Yonder appear! fharp-ey'd Philosophy
Clad in dun robes, an eagle on his wrist,
First meets my eye; next, virgin Solitude
Serene, who blushes at each gazer's fight;
Then Wisdom's hoary head, with crutch in hand,
Trembling, and bent with age; laft Virtue's felf
Smiling, in white array'd, who with her leads
Sweet Innocence, that prattles by her fide,
A naked boy!-Harrafs'd with fear I ftop,
I gaze, when Virtue thus- Whoe'er thou art,
• Mortal, by whom I deign to be beheld
In these my midnight-walks; depart, and fay
• That henceforth I and my immortal train
Forfake Britannia's ifle; who fondly ftoops
To Vice, her favourite paramour.'-She spoke,
And as the turn'd, her round and rofy neck,
Her flowing train, and long ambrofial hair,
Breathing rich odours, I enamour'd view.
O who will bear me then to western climes,
(Since Virtue leaves our wretched land) to fields
Yet unpolluted with Iberian fwords:
The ifles of innocence, from mortal view
Deeply retir'd, beneath a plantane's fhade,
Where Happiness and Quiet fit enthron'd,
With fimple Indian fwains, that I may hunt
The boar and tiger thro' Savannahs wild,
Thro' fragrant defarts, and thro' citron-groves.
There fed on dates and herbs, would I defpife
The far-fetch'd cates of Luxury, and hoards
Of narrow-hearted Avarice; nor heed
The diftant din of the tumultuous world.
So when rude whirlwinds rouze the roaring main,
Beneath fair Thetis fits, in coral caves,
Serenely gay, nor finking failors' cries
Disturb her sportive nymphs, who round her form
The light fantastick dance, or for her hair.
Weave rofy crowns, or with according lutes
Grace the foft warbles of her honied voice.
Parent of each lovely Mufe,
Thy spirit o'er my foul diffuse,
O'er all my artless fongs prefide,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built fhrine,
In golden cups no coftly wine,
No murder'd fat❜ling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.
O Nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare,
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd
Waving in thy fnowy hand
An all-commanding magick wand,
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow
'Mid chearless Lapland's barren fnow,
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey.
Thro' air, and over earth and fea,
While the vast various landscape lies
Confpicuous to thy piercing eyes.
O lover of the defart, hail!
Say, in what deep and pathlefs vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's fide,
'Mid fall of waters you refide,
'Mid broken rocks, a rugged fcene,
With green and graffy dales between,
'Mid forefts dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's ftroke,
Where never human art appear'd,
Nor ev'n one ftraw-roof'd cott was rear'd,
Where NATURE feems to fit alone,
Majestick on a craggy throne;
Tell me the path, fweet wand'rer, tell,
To thy unknown fequefter'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and mofs o'erlay the floor,
And on whofe top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whofe thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale ftill builds her nest,
Each evening warbling thee to reft:
There lay me by the haunted stream,
Rapt in fome wild, poetick dream,
In converfe while methinks I rove
With SPENSER thro' a fairy grove;
Till fuddenly awoke, I hear
Strange whisper'd mufick in my ear,
And my glad foul in blifs is drown'd,
By the sweetly-foothing found!
Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes thro' the yellow mead,
Where Joy and white-rob'd PEACE resort,
And VENUS keeps her feftive court,
Where MIRTH and YOUTH each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lilly-crowned heads,
Where LAUGHTER rofe-lip'd HEBE leads;
Where ECHO walks steep hills
Lift'ning to the fhepherd's fong:
Yet not these flowery fields of joy
Can long my penfive mind employ,
Hafte, FANCY, from these scenes of folly
To meet the matron MELANCHOLY,
Goddess of the tearful eye,
That loves to fold her arms and figh!
Let us with filent footsteps go
To charnels and the house of woe,
To Gothick churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each fad night some virgin comes,
With throbbing breaft, and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to feek;
Or to fome Abbey's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where, to avoid cold wintry fhow'rs,
The naked beggar fhivering lies,
While whistling tempefts round her rise,
And trembles left the tottering wall
Should on her fleeping infants fall.
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