There lonesome liften to the facred founds, Which, as they lengthen through the Gothic vaults, In hollow murmurs reach my ravish'd ear.
Nor when the lamps expiring yield to night, And folitude returns, would I forfake
The folemn manfion, but attentive hear The due clock fwinging flow with sweepy sway, Measuring Time's flight with momentary found. Nor let me fail to cultivate my mind With the foft thrillings of the tragic Muse, Divine Melpomene, fweet Pity's nurse, Queen of the stately step, and flowing pall. Now let Monimia mourn with streaming eyes Her joys incestuous, and polluted love : Now let foft Juliet in the gaping tomb Print the last kifs on her true Romeo's lips, His lips yet reeking from the deadly draught. Or Jaffeir kneel for one forgiving look. Nor feldom let the Moor of Desdemone
Pour the misguided threats of jealous rage.
By foft degrees the manly torrent steals
From my fwoln eyes;
and at a brother's woe
My big heart melts in fympathizing tears.
What are the splendors of the gaudy court,
Its tinfel trappings, and its pageant pomps? To me far happier feems the banish'd Lord Amid Siberia's unrejoicing wilds
Who pines all lonesome, in the chambers hoar Of some high caftle fhut, whose windows dim. In diftant ken discover trackless plains, Where Winter ever whirls his icy car; While still-repeated objects of his view, The gloomy battlements, and ivied fpires That crown the folitary dome, arise; While from the topmoft turret the flow clock, Far heard along th' inhofpitable wastes, With fad-returning chime awakes new grief; Ev'n he far happier feems than is the proud, The potent Satrap, whom he left behind 'Mid Moscow's golden palaces, to drown In ease and luxury the laughing hours.
Illuftrious objects ftrike the gazer's mind With feeble blifs, and but allure the fight, Nor rouze with impulse quick th' unfeeling heart. Thus feen by fhepherd from Hymettus' brow, What dædal landscapes fmile! here balmy groves, Refounding once with Plato's voice, arise, Amid whofe umbrage green her filver head
Th' unfading olive lifts; her vine-clad hills Lay forth their purple ftores, and funny vales In prospect vaft their level laps expand, Amid whose beauties glist'ring Athens tow'rs. Though through the blissful fcenes Iliffus roll His fage-inspiring flood, whose winding marge The thick-wove laurel fhades; though rofeate Morn Pour all her fplendors on th' empurpled scene; Yet feels the hoary Hermit truer joys,
As from the cliff that o'er his cavern hangs He views the piles of fall'n Persepolis
In deep arrangement hide the darkfome plain. Unbounded wafte! the mould'ring obelifc Here, like a blasted oak, ascends the clouds; Here Parian domes their vaulted halls difclofe Horrid with thorn, where lurks th' unpitying thief, Whence flits the twilight-loving bat at eve, And the deaf adder wreathes her spotted train, The dwellings once of elegance and art.
Here temples rife, amid whofe hallow'd bounds Spires the black pine, while through the naked street, Once haunt of tradeful merchants, fprings the grafs : Here columns heap'd on proftrate columns, torn From their firm base, increase the mould'ring mass.
Far as the fight can pierce, appear the fpoils Of funk magnificence! a blended scene
Of moles, fanes, arches, domes, and palaces, Where, with his brother Horror, Ruin fits. O come then, Melancholy, queen of thought! O come with faintly look, and ftedfaft step, From forth thy cave embower'd with mournful yew, Where to the diftant curfeu's folemn found
Lift'ning thou fitt'ft, and with thy cypress bind Thy votary's hair, and feal him for thy fon.
But never let Euphrófyne beguile
of wanton mirth my fixed mind,
Nor in my path her primrose-garland cast.
Though 'mid her train the dimpled Hebe bare
Her rofy bofom to th' enamour'd view; Though Venus, mother of the Smiles and Loves, And Bacchus, ivy-crown'd, in citron-bow'r With her on nectar-ftreaming fruitage feast: What though 'tis her's to calm the low'ring skies, And at her presence mild th' embattel'd clouds Difperfe in air, and o'er the face of heav'n New day diffusive gleam at her approach; Yet are these joys that Melancholy gives,
Than all her witless revels happier far; Thefe deep-felt joys, by Contemplation taught. Then ever, beauteous Contemplation, hail! From thee began, aufpicious maid, my fong, With thee fhall end: for thou art fairer far Than are the nymphs of Cirrha's moffy grot; To loftier rapture thou canft wake the thought, Than all the fabling Poet's boafted pow'rs. Hail, queen divine! whom, as tradition tells, Once, in his ev'ning-walk a Druid found, Far in a hollow glade of Mona's woods; And piteous bore with hospitable hand To the close fhelter of his oaken bow'r. There foon the fage admiring mark'd the dawn Of folemn musing in your pensive thought; For when a smiling babe, you lov'd to lie Oft deeply lift'ning to the rapid roar
Of wood-hung Meinai, ftream of Druids old,
That lav'd his hallow'd haunt with dashing wave.
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