Towred cities please us then,
And the bufy hum of men,
Where throngs of knights and barons bold
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,
With ftore of ladies, whofe bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize
Of wit, or arms, while both contend
To win her grace, whom all commend.
There let Hymen oft appear
In faffron robe, with taper clear,
And pomp, and feaft, and revelry,
With mask and antique pageantry,
Such fights as youthful poets dream,
On fummer eves by haunted ftream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonfon's learned fock be on,
Or fiveeteft Shakefpear, fancy's child,
Warble his native wood-notes wild.
And ever against eating cares,
Lap me in foft Lydian airs,
Married to immortal verse,
Such as the meeting foul may pierce
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out,
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running,
Untwisting all the chains that ty
The hidden soul of harmony;
That Orpheus' self may heave his head
From golden flumber on a bed
Of heapt Elyfian flowers, and hear
Such ftrains as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to have quite fet free
His half-regain'd Eurydice.
Thefe delights if thou canft give,
Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
HENCE, vain deluding joys,
The brood of folly without father bred, How little you bested,
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys! Dwell in fome idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes poffefs, As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the fun-beams, Or likelieft hovering dreams
The fickle penfioners of Morpheus' train.
But hail, thou Goddess, sage and holy!
Hail, divineft Melancholy!
Whose faintly visage is too bright
To hit the fenfe of human fight,
And therefore to our weaker view
O'erlaid with black, ftaid wifdom's hue;
Black, but fuch as in esteem
Prince Memnon's fifter might befeem,
Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove
To fet her beauties' praife above
The Sea-Nymphs, and their powers offended:
Yet thou art higher far defcended,
Thee bright-hair'd Vesta long of yore
To folitary Saturn bore;
His daughter fhe (in Saturn's reign,
Such mixture was not held a stain).
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
He met her, and in fecret fhades
Of woody Ida's inmoft grove,
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Faft, that oft with Gods doth diet,
And hears the Mufes in a ring
Ay round about Jove's altar fing:
And add to thefe retired Leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure;
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,
Him that yon foars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The Cherub Contemplation;
And the mute Silence hift along,
'Lefs Philomel will deign a fong,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
Gently o'er th' accustom❜d oak;
Sweet bird that fhunn'ft the noise of folly,
Moft mufical, moft melancholy!
Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among,
I woo to hear thy even-fong;
And miffing 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 aftray
Through the Heav'n's wide pathless way,
And oft, as if her head fhe bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rifing ground,
I hear the far-off 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 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 belman's droufy charm,
To blefs the doors from nightly harm :
Or let my lamp at midnight hour,
Be seen in some high lonely tower,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
The spirit of Plato to unfold
What worlds, or what vaft regions, hold
The immortal mind that hath forfook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook :
And of thofe Demons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whofe power hath a true consent
With planet, or with element.
Sometime let gorgeous tragedy
In fcepter'd pall come fweeping by,
Presenting Thebes', or Pelops' line,
Or the tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
But, O fad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musæus from his bower,
Or bid the foul of Orpheus fing
Such notes as, warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what love did feek.
Or call up him that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
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