Il Penseroso

Hence vain deluding joyes,     The brood of folly without father bred,     How little you bested,     Or fill the fixd mind with all your toyes;     Dwell in some idle brain,     And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,     As thick and numberless     As the gay motes that poeple the Sun Beams,     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,     Ore laid with black staid Wisdoms hue.     Black, but such as in esteem,     Prince Memnons sister might beseem,     Or that starrd Ethiope Queen that strove     To set her beauties praise above     The Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended,     Yet thou art higher far descended,     Thee bright-haird Vesta long of yore,     To solitary Saturn bore;     His daughter she (in Saturns raign,     Such mixture was not held a stain)     Oft in glimmering Bowres, and glades     He met her, and in secret shades     Of woody Idas inmost grove,     While yet there was no fear of Jove.     Com pensive Nun, devout and pure,     Sober, stedfast, and demure,     All in a robe of darkest grain,     Flowing with majestick train,     And sable stole of Cipres Lawn,     Over thy decent shoulders drawn.     Com, but keep thy wonted state,     With eevn step, and musing gate,     And looks commercing with the skies,     Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:     There held in holy passion still,     Forget thy self to Marble, till     With a sad Leaden downward cast,     Thou fix them on the earth as fast.     And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,     Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,     And hears the Muses in a ring,     Ay round about Joves Altar sing.     And adde to these retired leasure,     That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure;     But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,     Him that yon soars on golden wing,     Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,     The Cherub Contemplation,     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 ore th accustomed Oke;     Sweet Bird that shunnst 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 wandring Moon,     Riding neer her highest noon,     Like one that had bin led astray     Through the Heavns wide pathles way;     And oft, as if her head she bowd,     Stooping through a fleecy cloud.     Oft on a Plat of rising ground,     I hear the far-off Curfeu sound,     Over some wide-waterd shoar,     Swinging slow with sullen roar;     Or if the Ayr will not permit,     Som 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 Belmans drowsie charm     To bless the dores from nightly harm:     Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,     Be seen in some high lonely Towr,     Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,     With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear     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 Dmons that are found     In fire, air, flood, or under ground,     Whose power hath a true consent     With Planet, or with Element.     Som time let Gorgeous Tragedy     In Scepterd Pall com sweeping by,     Presenting Thebs, or Pelops line,     Or the tale of Troy divine.     Or what (though rare) of later age,     Ennobled hath the Buskind stage.     But, O sad Virgin, that thy power     Might raise Musus from his bower,     Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing     Such notes as warbled to the string,     Drew Iron tears down Plutos 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 Canace to wife,     That ownd the vertuous Ring and Glass,     And of the wondrous Hors of Brass,     On which the Tartar King did ride.     And if ought els, great Bards beside,     In sage and solemn tunes have sung,     Of Turneys and of Trophies hung;     Of Forests, and inchantments drear,     Where more is meant then meets the ear.     Thus night oft see me in thy pale career,     Till civil-suitd Morn appeer,     Not trickt and frounct as she was wont,     With the Attick Boy to hunt,     But Chercheft in a comely Cloud,     While rocking Winds are Piping loud,     Or usherd with a shower still,     When the gust hath blown his fill,     Ending on the russling Leaves,     With minute drops from off the Eaves.     And when the Sun begins to fling     His flaring beams, me Goddess bring     To arch?d walks of twilight groves,     And shadows brown that Sylvan loves     Of Pine, or monumental Oake,     Where the rude Ax with heaved stroke     Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,     Or fright them from their hallowd haunt.     There in close covert by some Brook,     Where no prophaner eye may look,     Hide me from Days garish eie,     While the Bee with Honied thie,     That at her flowry work doth sing,     And the Waters murmuring     With such consort as they keep,     Entice the dewy-featherd Sleep;     And let some strange mysterious dream,     Wave at his Wings in Airy stream,     Of lively portrature displayd,     Softly on my eye-lids laid.     And as I wake, sweek musick breath     Above, about, or underneath,     Sent by som spirit to mortals good,     Or thunseen Genius of the Wood.     But let my due feet never fail,     To walk the studious Cloysters pale.     And love the high embowed Roof,     With antick Pillars massy proof,     And storied Windows richly dight,     Casting a dimm religious light.     There let the pealing Organ blow,     To the full voicd Quire below,     In Service high, and Anthems cleer,     As may with sweetness, through mine ear,     Dissovle me into extasies,     And bring all Heavn before mine eyes.     And may at last my weary age     Find out the peacefull hermitage,     The Hairy Gown and Mossy Cell,     Where I may sit and rightly spell     Of every Star that heavn doth shew,     And every Herb that sips the dew;     Till old experience do attain     To something like Prophetic strain.     These pleasures of Melancholy give,     And I with thee will choose to live.