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THE

PLEASURES of MELANCHOLY.

M

Written in the Year 1745.

By Mr. THOMAS WARTON.
OTHER of mufings, Contemplation fage,

Whofe grotto ftands upon the topmost rock
Of Teneriff: 'mid the tempeftuous night,

On which, in calmest meditation held,

Thou hear'ft with howling winds the beating rain
And drifting hail defcend; or if the skies
Unclouded fhine, and thro' the blue ferene
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
With hoarfe 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'A
Remote from man, converfing with the spheres!
O lead me, queen fublime, to folemn glooms
Congenial with my foul; to cheerless shades,

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To ruin'd feats, or twilight cells and bow'rs,
Where thoughtful Melancholy loves to muse,

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's
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
Invefts fome wafted tow'r. Or let me tread

In 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 start: lo, all is motionless around!

Roars not the rushing wind; the fons 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 still 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 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 foft summer's ev'ning smiles,

As, lift'ning to the diftant water-fall,
They mark the blushes of the ftreaky weft;
I choose the pale December's foggy glooms.
Then, when the fullen fhades of evʼning close,

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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 search 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 ftamps the monster on the man.
Eager we taste, 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 taftelefs fplendor and magnificence
Can e'er afford. Thus Eloife, whofe 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 votaress: 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 dress,

And shines the fairest of th' affembled fair.

When azure noon-tide cheers 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 fhare my fong!
Sifter of Ebon-fcepter'd Hecat, hail!

Whether in congregated clouds thou wrap'st
Thy viewless chariot, or with filver crown
Thy beaming head encircleft, ever hail!
What tho' beneath thy gloom the forcerefs-train,
Far in obfcured haunt of Lapland-moors,.
With rhymes uncouth the bloody cauldron bless;
Tho' Murder wan, beneath thy fhrouding shade
Summons her flow-ey'd vot'ries to devise
Of fecret flaughter, while by one blue lamp
In hideous conf'rence fits the liftening band,
And ftart at each low wind, or wakeful found:
What tho' thy ftay the pilgrim curseth oft,
As all benighted in Arabian waftes

He hears the wilderness around him howl

With roaming monfters, while on his hoar head
The black-defcending tempeft ceafelefs beats;

Yet more delightful to my pensive mind