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IL PENSEROSCX

Hence, vain delud ng joyi,
The brood of Folly, without father bred*

How little you bested,
Or sill the sixed mind with all your toys.?

Dwell in fome idle bram,
And fancies fond w th gaudy fhapes poffefi,

As thick and numberlefs
As the gay motes that people the fun-beams.

Or likest hovering dreams,
The sickle pensioners of Morpheus' train*

But hail, thou Goddels, fage and holy!
Hail, divincst Melancholy!
Whofe faintly vifage is too bright
To h t the fenfe of human sight,
And therefor* to our weaker view
O'erlaid with black, staid Wifdom's hu«;
Black, but fuch as in esteem
Prince Memnon's sister mi^ht befeem^
Or that flarr'd hthion queen that strove
To fet her heaut\'s praife above
The aea-nymphs, and their pow'rs offended-;
Yet thou art higher far descended:

Thee, bright-Iiair'd Vesta, long of yore
To folitary Saturn bore;
His daughter lhe (in Saturn's reign
Such mixture was not held a stain).
Oft in glimmering pow'rs and glades
He met her, and in fecret fhades
Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove.
Come, penfive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, stedfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And fable stole of Cyprus lawn,
Over thy decent lhoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt foul sitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy passion still,
Forget thyfelf to marble, till
With a fad leaden downward cast
Thou six 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 mufes in a ring
Aye round about Jove's altar sing:
And add to thefe retired Leifure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleafure:
But sirst, and chiefest, with thee bring,
Him that yon foars on golden wing,
Guiding the siery-wheeled throne,
The cherub Contemplation;

And the mute Silence hist along,

'Lest Philomel will deign a fong,

In her fweetest, faddest plight,

Smoothing the rugged hrow of Night,

While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,

Gently o'er th' accustom'd oak;

Sweet hird, that shunn'st th' noise of Folly,

Most musical, most melancholy!

Thee, chauntreu, oft the woods among,

I woo, to hear thy even-fong;

And, missmg thee, I walk unfeen,

On the dry fmooth-shaven green,

To hehold the wandering moon,

Riding near her highest noon,

Like one that had heen led astray

Through the heav'n's wide pathlefs way;

And oft as if her head she how'd,

Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft, on a plat of rising ground,

I hear the far-oss curfeu found,

Over fome wide water'd fhore,

Swinging flow, with fullen roar:

Or, if the air will not permit,

Some still removed place will sit,

Where glowing emhers through the room

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,

Far from all refort of mirth,

Save the cricket on the hearth,

Or the helman's drowfy charm.

To hlels the doors from nightly harm.:

Or let my lamp, at midnight hour,

Be feen in fume high lonely tow's,

Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,

With thrice great Hcrmes, or unfphere

The fpirit of Plato, to unfold

What worlds, or what vast regions hold

The immortal mind that hath lorfook

Her mansion in this flelhly nook:

And ot thole demons that are found

In Are, air, flood, «r under ground,

Whofe power hath a true confent

With planet, or with element.

Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy

In fceptred pall come fweeping by,

Prefenting Thebes or Pelop's line,

Or the tale of Troy divine;

Or what (though rare) of later age,

Ennobled hath the buskin'd ftage.

But, O sad Virgin, that thy power

Might raife Mulaeus from his bower,

Or bid the foul of Orpheus sing

Such note?, as warbled to the string,

Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek.

And made Hell grant what Love did feck:

Or call up him that left half-told

The story of Cambufcan bold;

Of Camball, and of Algarsile,

And who had Car.ace' to wife,

That own'd the virtuous ring and glafs,

And of the wondrous horfe ot brafs,

On which the Tartar king did ride;

And if aught elfe great Bard* upfide

In fage and folemn tunes have fung,

Of turners and of trophies hung,

Of forests and enchantments drear,

Where more is meant than metis tl-e; ear.

Thus, Night, oft fee me in thy pale career,

Till civil-fuited Morn appear,

Not trick'd and froonc'd as ihe was wont,

With the Attic boy to hunt,

But 'kercbiefM ia a comely cloud*

While rocking winds are piping loudj

Or uflier'd with a mower still.

When the gust hath blown his sill,

Ending on the rustling'Leaves, ,

With minute drops from oss the eaver.

And when the fun begins to fling

His flaring beams, me, goddefs, bring

To arched walks of twilight groves,

And fhadows 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 clofe covert, by fome brook,

Where no profaner eye may look,

Hide me from Day's garish eye,

While the bee with honied thigh,

That at her flow'ry work doth sing,

And the waters murmuring,

With fuch comfort as they keep,

Entice the dewy featherVi fl-rp;

And let fome strange mysterious dreans

Wave ai his wings in eery stream

Of lively portraiture difplay'd,

Softly on axy eye-lids laid;

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