THE

PLEASURES of MELANCHOLY,

MOTH

Written in the Year 1745.

By Mr. THOMAS WARTON.

OTHER of mufings, Contemplation sage,
Whofe grotto stands upon the topmoft rock

Of Teneriff: mid the tempestuous, 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 shine, and thro' the blue ferene
Pale Cynthia rolls her filver-axled car,
Whence gazing ftedfaft on the spangled vault
Raptur'd thou fit ft, while marmurs indiftinct
Of diftant billows footh thy penfive ear
With hoarfe and hollow founds; fecure, self-bleft,
There oft thou liften'ft to the wild aproar.
Of fleets encount'ring, that in whispers low
Afcends the rocky fummit, where thou dwell'st
Remote from man, converfing with the fpheres!
O lead me, queen fublime, to folemn glooms
Congenial with my foul; to chearless shades,

SIT

To

To ruin'd feats, or twilight cells and bow'rs,
Where thoughtful Melancholy loves to mufe,
Her fav'rite midnight haunts. The laughing scenes
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 !
Beneath yon' ruin'd abbey's mofs-grown piles
Oft let me fit, at twilight hour of eve,

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

Save the lone screech-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 flaunting ivy, that with mantle green
Invests fome wafted tow'r. Or let me tread

Its neighb'ring walk of pines, where mus'd of old
The cloyster'd brother: thro' 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, thro' the far-winding vaults.
Nor undelightful is the folemn noon

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

Roars not the rushing wind; the sons of men
And every beast in mute oblivion lie;
All nature's hush'd in filence and in sleep.
O then how fearful is it to reflect,
That thro' the ftill globe's aweful folitude,
No being wakes but me! 'till stealing fleep
My drooping temples bathes in opiate dews.
Nor then let dreams, of wanton folly born,
My fenfes lead thro' flowery paths of joy;
But let the facred Genius of the night
Such myftic vifions fend, as Spenfer faw,
When thro' bewild'ring Fancy's magic maze,
To the fell house of Busyrane, 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 foft fummer's ev'ning smiles,

As, lift'ning to the diftant water-fall,

They mark the blushes of the streaky west;

I choose the pale December's foggy glooms.

Then, when the fullen fhades of ev'ning close,

6

Where

Where thro' the room a blindly-glimm'ring gleam
The dying embers scatter, far remote

From Mirth's mad fhouts, that thro' th' illumin'd roof
Refound with feftive 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 fearch elude,
As thro' the wilderness of life we rove.

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 lufcious 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 splendor and magnificence
Can e'er afford. Thus Eloife, whose mind
Had languish'd to the pangs of melting love,
More genuine transport found, as on fome tomb
Reclin'd, fhe watch'd the tapers of the dead;
Or thro' the pillar'd iles, amid pale shrines
Of imag'd faints, and intermingled graves,
Mus'd a veil'd votarefs: than Flavia feels,

As thro' the mazes of the festive ball

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

And fhines the fairest of th' affembled fair.

When azure noon tide chears the dædal globe, And the bleft regent of the golden day

Rejoices in his bright meridian bow'r,

How oft my wishes ask the night's return,
That beft befriends the melancholy mind!

Hail, facred Night! thou too fhalt share 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 tho' beneath thy gloom the forceress-train,
Far in obfcured haunt of Lapland-moors,

With rhymes uncouth the bloody cauldron blefs;
Tho' Murder wan, beneath thy shrouding shade
Summons her flow-ey'd vot'ries to devife
Of fecret flaughter, while by one blue lamp
In hideous conf'rence fits the liftening band,
And start at each low wind, or wakeful found:
What tho' thy ftay the pilgrim curfeth 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 ceafelefs. beats;
Yet more delightful to my penfive mind.