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And the bleft regent of the golden day
Rejoices in his bright meridian bow'r,
How oft my wishes afk the night's return,
That beft befriends the melancholy mind!
Hail, facred Night! thou too fhalt fhare my fong!
Sifter of Ebon-fcepter'd Hecat, hail!

Whether in congregated clouds thou wrap'ft
Thy viewless chariot, or with filver crown
Thy beaming head encircleft, ever hail!
What though beneath thy gloom the forcerefs-train,
Far in obfcured haunt of Lapland-moors,

With rhymes uncouth the bloody cauldron bless;
Though Murder wan, beneath thy fhrouding shade
Summons her flow-ey'd vot'ries to devise
Of secret slaughter, while by one blue lamp
In hideous conf'rence fits the liftening band,
And start at each low wind, or wakeful found:
What though thy stay the pilgrim curseth oft,
As all benighted in Arabian waftes

He hears the wilderness around him howl

With roaming monsters, while on his hoar head
The black defcending tempeft ceaseless beats;
Yet more delightful to my penfive mind

Is thy return, than bloomy morn's approach,

Ev'n then, in youthful pride of opening May,
When from the portals of the saffron east
She sheds fresh roses, and ambrofial dews.

Yet not ungrateful is the morn's approach,
When dropping wet fhe comes, and clad in clouds,
While through the damp air scowls the louring fouth,
Blackening the landscape's face, that grove and hill
In formless vapours undistinguish'd swim:

Th' afflicted songsters of the fadden'd groves
Hail not the fullen gloom; the waving elms
That hoar through time, and rang'd in thick array,
Enclose with stately row fome rural hall,

Are mute, nor echo with the clamors hoarfe
Of rooks rejoicing on their airy boughs;
While to the shed the dripping poultry crowd,
A mournful train; fecure the village-hind
Hangs o'er the crackling blaze, nor tempts the storm;
Fix'd in th' unfinish'd furrow rests the plough:
Rings not the high wood with enliv❜ning shouts

Of early hunter: all is filence drear;

And deepest sadness wraps the face of things.

Thro' POPE's foft fong tho' all the Graces breathe, And happiest art adorn his Attic page;

Yet does my mind with fweeter transport glow,

As

As at the root of moffy trunk reclin'd,
In magic SPENSER'S wildly-warbled fong
I fee deferted Una wander wide

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Through wasteful folitudes, and lurid heaths
Weary, forlorn; than when the fated fair,
Upon the bofom bright of filver Thames,
Launches in all the luftre of brocade,
Amid the splendors of the laughing Sun.
The gay description palls upon the sense,

And coldly ftrikes the mind with feeble bliss.

1

Ye Youths of Albion's beauty-blooming isle, Whose brows have worn the wreath of lucklefs love, Is there a pleasure like the penfive mood,

Whose magic wont to footh your foften'd fouls?

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O tell how rapturous the joy, to melt
To Melody's affuafive voice; to bend
Th' uncertain step along the midnight mead,
And pour your forrows to the pitying moon,
By many a flow trill from the bird of woe
Oft interrupted; in embowering woods
By dark fome brook to mufe, and there forget
The folemn dulnefs of the tedious world,
While Fancy grafps the vifionary fair:

Belinda. See Rape of the Lock.

And

And now no more th' abstracted ear attends
The water's murm'ring lapfe, th' entranced eye
Pierces no longer through th' extended rows
Of thick-rang'd trees; 'till haply from the depth
The woodman's stroke, or distant-tinkling team,
Or heifer rustling through the brake alarms
Th' illuded fenfe, and mars the golden dream.
These are delights that absence drear has made
Familiar to my foul, e'er fince the form
Of young Sapphira, beauteous as the Spring,
When from her vi'let-woven couch awak'd
By frolic Zephyr's hand, her tender cheek
Graceful fhe lifts, and blufhing from her bow'r,
Iffues to cloath in gladsome-glift'ring green
The genial globe, firft met my dazzled fight:
These are delights unknown to minds profane,
And which alone the penfive foul can taste.

The taper'd choir, at the late hour of pray'r,
Oft let me tread, while to th' according voice
The many-founding organ peals on high,
The clear flow-dittyed chaunt, or varied hymn,
'Till all my foul is bath'd in ecftafies,
And lap'd in Paradise. Or let me fit

Far in fequefter'd iles of the deep dome,

There

There lonefome liften to the facred founds,
Which, as they lengthen through the Gothic vaults,

In hollow murmurs reach my ravish'd ear.

Nor when the lamps expiring yield to night,
And folitude returns, would I forfake

The folemn mansion, but attentive hear

The due clock fwinging flow with sweepy fway,
Measuring Time's flight with momentary found.
Nor let me fail to cultivate my mind
With the foft thrillings of the tragic Muse,
Divine Melpomene, fweet Pity's nurse,
Queen of the ftately step, and flowing pall.
Now let Monimia mourn with streaming eyes
Her joys incestuous, and polluted love :
Now let foft Juliet in the gaping tomb
Print the last kifs on her true Romeo's lips,
His lips yet reeking from the deadly draught.
Or Jaffeir kneel for one forgiving look.
Nor feldom let the Moor of Defdemone
Pour the misguided threats of jealous rage.
By foft degrees the manly torrent steals

From my
fwoln eyes; and at a brother's woe
My big heart melts in fympathizing tears.
What are the fplendors of the gaudy court,

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