Penseroso

    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 #CCCCFF staid Wisdom's hue；

    #CCCCFF 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-hair'd 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 cypres lawn

    Over thy decent shoulders drawn：

    Come but keep thy wonted state

    With even step and musing gait

    And looks commércing 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 retirèd 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.

    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 vast regions hold

    The immortal mind that hath forsook

    Her mansion in this fleshly nook：

    And of those demons that are found

    In fire air flood or underground

    Whose power hath a true consent

    With planet or with element.

    Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy

    In sceptr'd pall come sweeping 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 sad Virgin that thy power

    Might raise Mus？us from his bower

    Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing

    Such notes as warbled to the string

    Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek

    And made Hell grant what Love did seek！

    Or call up him that left half-told

    The story of Cambuscan bold

    Of Camball and of Algarsife

    And who had Canacé to wife

    That own'd the virtuous ring and glass；

    And of the wondrous horse of brass

    On which the Tartar king did ride：

    And if aught else great bards beside

    In sage and solemn tunes have sung

    Of turneys and of trophies hung

    Of forests and enchantments drear

    Where more is meant than meets the ear.

    Thus Night oft see me in thy pale career

    Till civil-suited Morn appear

    Not trick'd and frounc'd as she was wont

    With the Attic Boy to hunt

    But kercheft in a comely cloud

    While rocking winds are piping loud.

    Or usher'd with a shower still

    When the gust hath blown his fill

    Ending on the rustling leaves

    With minute drops from off the eaves.

    And when the sun begins to fling

    His flaring beams me goddess bring

    To archèd walks of twilight groves

    And shadows brown that Sylvan loves

    Of pine or monumental oak

    Where the rude axe with heavèd stroke

    Was never heard the nymphs to daunt

    Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.

    There in close covert by some brook

    Where no profaner eye may look

    Hide me from day's garish eye

    While the bee with honey'd thigh

    That at her flowery work doth sing

    And the waters murmuring

    With such consort as they keep

    Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep；

    And let some strange mysterious dream

    Wave at his wings in airy stream

    Of lively portraiture display'd

    Softly on my eyelids laid：

    And as I wake sweet music breathe

    Above about or underneath

    Sent by some Spirit to mortals good

    Or the unseen Genius of the wood.

    But let my due feet never fail

    To walk the studious cloister's pale

    And love the high-embowèd roof

    With antique pillars massy proof

    And storied windows richly dight

    Casting a dim religious light.

    There let the pealing organ blow

    To the full-voiced quire below

    In service high and anthems clear

    As may with sweetness through mine ear

    Dissolve me into ecstasies

    And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.

    And may at last my weary age

    Find out the peaceful hermitage

    The hairy gown and mossy cell

    Where I may sit and rightly spell

    Of every star that heaven doth shew

    And every herb that sips the dew；

    Till old experience do attain

    To something like prophetic strain.

    These pleasures Melancholy give

    And I with thee will choose to live.