Hence, vain deluding Joys, The brood of Folly without father bred! How little you bestead Or fill the fixÈd mind with all your toys! Dwell in some idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, Or likest hovering dreams 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-haired 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, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain Flowing with majestic train, And sable 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 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 Aye round about Jove’s altar sing: And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure:— But first, and chiefest, with thee bring Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheelÈd throne, The cherub ContemplatiÒn; And the mute Silence hist along, ‘Less Philomel will deign a song In her sweetest, saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke Gently o’er the accustom’d oak. —Sweet bird, that shunn’st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among I woo, to hear thy even-song; And missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry, smooth-shaven green, To behold the wandering 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 curfeu sound Over some wide-water’d shore, Swinging slow with sullen roar: Or, if the air will not permit, Some still removÈd place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the bellman’s drowsy charm To bless the doors from nightly harm.