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IL PENSEROSO: Or the gloomy Pleafures of Melancholy.

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 fhapes poffefs, As thick and numberless

As the gay motes that people the fun-beams, Or likeft hovering dreams,

The fickle penfioners of Morpheus' train. But hail! thou goddefs, fage and holy, Hail! divinest Melancholy,

Whofe faintly visage is too bright

To hit the sense of human fight,

And therefore to our weaker view

O'erlaid with black, ftaid Wisdom's hue;

Black, but fuch as in efteem

Prince Memnon's fifter might be feen,

Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that ftrove
To fet her beauties praise above

The Sea-nymphs, and their pow'rs offended:
Yet thou art higher far defcended;
Thee bright-hair'd Vefa long of yore

To folitary Saturn bore ;

His daughter fhe (in Saturn's reign
Such mixture was not held a stain)
Oft in glimmering bow'rs and glades
He met her, and in fecret fhades
Of woody Ida's inmoft grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove.
Come penfive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, ftedfaft, and demure,
All in robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And fable ftole of Cyprus lawn,
O'er thy decent shoulders drawn. ·
Come, but keep thy wonted ftate,
With even step, and mufing gate,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt foul fitting in thine eyes:

There held in holy paffion still

Forget thyself to marble, till
With a fad leaden downward caft
Thou fix them on the earth as faft:

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 these retired Leifure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure;
But firft, and chiefeft, 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' accuftom'd oak.

Sweet bird that fhunn'ft the noife of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee chauntrefs oft the woods among
I woo to hear thy even-fong;
And miffing thee, I walk unfeen
On the dry fmooth-fhaven green,
To behold the wand'ring moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heav'n's wide pathlefs 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 ftill removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all refort of mirth,

Save the cricket on the hearth,

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Or the belman's droufy charm,

To bless the doors from nightly harm:
Or let my lamp at midnight hour
Be feen in fome high lonely tow'r,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere
The fpirit of Plato to unfold

What worlds, or what vaft regions hold
The immortal mind that hath forfook
Her manfion in this fleshy nook :
And of thofe Demons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whofe power hath a true confent
With planet, or with element.
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In fcepter'd pall come fweeping by,
Prefenting 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 raife Mufæus from his bower,
Or bid the foul of Orpheus fing
Such notes as, warbled to the ring,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made hell grant what love did feek;
Or call him that left half told

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The ftory of Cambufcan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarfife,
And who had Canace to wife,

That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wond'rous horfe of brass
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if ought elfe great bards befide
In fage and folemn tunes have fung,
Of turnies and of trophies hung,
Of forefts, and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear,
Thus, Night, oft fee me in thy pale career,

Till civil-fuited Morn appear,

Not trickt and flounc't as fhe was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,

But kercheft in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or ufher'd with a fhower ftill,

When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rufsling leaves

With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the fun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak,

Where the rude ax with heavy 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 honied thigh,
That at her flow'ry work doth fing,
And the waters murmuring,

With fuch confort as they keep

Entice the dewy feather'd Sleep;
And let some strange myfterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid :)

And, as I wake, fweet mufic breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unfeen genius of the wood.
But let my dew-feet never fail
To walk the ftudious cloyfters pale,
And love the high-embowed roof,
With antique pillars maffy proof,
And ftoried windows richly dight,
Cafting a dim religious light :
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voic'd choir below,
In fervice high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness through mine ear
Diffolve me into extafies,

And bring all heav'n before mine eyes.

And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown, and moffy cell,
Where I may fit and rightly spell
Of every ftar that heav'n doth fhew,
And every herb that fips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To fomething like prophetic ftrain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will chufe to live.

These poems are to be admired, as well for their clofe, fignificant, and expreffive descriptions, as for the frequent and beautiful use the poet has made of the figure called Profopopaia; by which he has perfonified almost every object in his view, raised a great number of pleafing images, and introduced qualities and things inanimate as living and rational beings.

We cannot quit this fubject without taking fome notice of that excellent poem, left us by Mr. Thomson, intituled the Seafons; which, notwithstanding fome parts of it are didactic, may with propriety be inferted under this head.

In this work, the author has given us a poetical, philofophical, and moral defcription of the four feafons, viz. Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter.

Under Spring, he has described the feason as it usually affects the various parts of nature, afcending from the lower to the higher, and confidered the influence of the Spring on inanimate matter, on vegetables, on brute animals, and on man ; after which he concludes with a diffuafive from the wild and irregular paffion of love, and recommends that of a pure and happy kind. The whole is embellished with fuitable digreffions, and moral reflections; and wrought up with wonderful art. His Addrefs to heaven in favour of the farmer, and what follows in praise of agriculture, is extremely beautiful..

Be gracious, HEAVEN! for now laborious man
Has done his part. Ye foftering breezes, blow
Ye foft'ning dews, ye tender fhowers, descend!
And temper all, thou world-reviving fun,.
Into the perfect year! nor ye who live
In luxury and cafe, in pomp and pride,

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