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The peaceful poet please;

Nor ceafelefs toils for fordid gains,

Nor purple pomp, nor wide domains,

Nor heaps of wealth,nor power,nor statesman's schemes,
Nor all deceiv'd Ambition's feverish dreams,

Lure his contented heart from the fweet vale of ease.

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PLEASURES of MELANCHOLY.

Written in the Year 1745.

By Mr. THOMAS WARTON.

MOTI

OTHER of musings, Contemplation sage,
Whofe grotto ftands upon the topmost rock
Of Teneriff: 'mid the tempeftuous night,
On which, in calmeft meditation held,
Thou hear'ft with howling winds the beating rain
And drifting hail defcend; or if the skies
Unclouded fhine, and through the blue serene
Pale Cynthia rolls her filver-axled car,
Whence gazing stedfast on the spangled vault
Raptur'd thou fit'ft, while murmurs indistinct
Of diftant billows footh thy penfive ear

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With

With hoarse and hollow founds; fecure, felf-bleft,
There oft thou liften'ft to the wild uproar.
Of fleets encount'ring, that in whispers low
Afcends the rocky fummit, where thou dwell'st
Remote from man, converfing with the spheres!
O lead me, queen fublime, to folemn glooms
Congenial with my foul; to cheerless shades,
To ruin'd feats, or twilight cells and bow'rs,
Where thoughtful Melancholy loves to muse,
Her fav'rite midnight haunts. The laughing fcenes:
Of purple Spring, where all the wanton train
Of Smiles and Graces feem to lead the dance
In fportive round, while from their hands they fhow'r
Ambrofial blooms and flow'rs, no longer charm;
Tempe, no more I court thy balmy breeze,
Adieu green vales! ye broider'd meads, adieu!

* 347 97

Beneath yon ruin'd abbey's mofs-grown piles Oft let me fit, at twilight hour of eve,

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Where through fome western window the pale moon.
Pours her long-levell'd rule of streaming light;
While fullen facred filence reigns around,

Save the lone fcreech-owl's note, who builds his bow'r
Amid the mould'ring caverns, dark and damp,
Or the calm breeze, that ruftles in the leaves

Of

Of flaunting ivy, that with mantle green
Invefts fome wafted tow'r. Or let me tread
Its neighb'ring walk of pines, where mus'd of old
The cloyster'd brother: through the gloomy void **
That far extends beneath their ample arch
As on I pace, religious horror wraps

My foul in dread repofe. But when the world
Is clad in Midnight's raven-colour'd robe,
'Mid hollow charnels let me watch the flame
Of taper dim, fhedding a livid glare
O'er the wan heaps; while airy voices talk
Along the glimm'ring walls: or ghostly shape
At distance seen, invites with beck'ning hand
My lonesome steps, through the far-winding vaults.
Nor undelightful is the folemn noon I

Of night, when haply wakeful from my couch
I ftart: lo, all is motionless around!"

Roars not the rufhing wind; the fons of men
And every beast in mute oblivion lie;
All nature's hufh'd in filence and in fleep.
O then how fearful is it to reflect,

That through the still globe's aweful folitude,
No being wakes but me! 'till stealing sleep
My drooping temples bathes in opiate dews.

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Nor

Nor then let dreams, of wanton folly born,
My fenfes lead through flowery paths of joy;
But let the facred Genius of the night

Such mystic visions fend, as Spenfer saw,
When through bewild'ring Fancy's magic maze,
To the fell houfe of Bufyrane, he led
Th' unfhaken Britomart; or Milton knew,
When in abstracted thought he first conceiv'd
All heav'n in tumult, and the Seraphim
Come tow'ring, arm'd in adamant and gold.

Let others love soft fummer's ev'ning fmiles,
As, lift'ning to the distant water-fall,
They mark the blushes of the ftreaky weft;
I choose the pale December's foggy glooms.
Then, when the fullen fhades of ev'ning close,
Where through the room a blindly-glimm❜ring gleam

The dying embers fcatter, far remote

From Mirth's mad fhouts, that thro' th' illumin'd roof
Refound with festive echo, let me fit,
Bleft with the lowly cricket's drowsy dirge.
Then let my thought contemplative explore
This fleeting state of things, the vain delights,
The fruitless toils, that ftill our search elude,
As through the wilderness of life we rove.

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This fober hour of filence will unmask

Falfe Folly's fmiles, that like the dazzling spells
Of wily Comus cheat th' unweeting eye
With blear illufion, and perfuade to drink
That charmed cup, which Reason's mintage fair
Unmoulds, and stamps the monster on the man.
Eager we tafte, but in the luscious draught
Forget the pois'nous dregs that lurk beneath.

Few know that elegance of foul refin'd,
Whose soft sensation feels a quicker joy
From Melancholy's fcenes, than the dull pride
Of tasteless fplendor and magnificence
Can e'er afford. Thus Eloife, whose mind
Had languish'd to the pangs of melting love,
More genuine tranfport found, as on fome tomb
Reclin'd, fhe watch'd the tapers of the dead;
Or through the pillar'd iles, amid pale shrines

Of imag'd faints, and intermingled graves,
Mus'd a veil'd votarefs: than Flavia feels,

As through the mazes of the festive ball,

Proud of her conquering charms, and beauty's blaze, She floats amid the filken fons of dress,

And fhines the fairest of th' affembled fair.

When azure noon-tide cheers the dædal globe,

And

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