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That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride ;
And if ought else great bards beside
In sage and solid time have sung
Of turneys and of trophies hung,
Of forests and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
Till civil suited Morn appear,
Not trick'd and frounc'd as she was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt;
But kercheft in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud ;
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the gust has blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the sun begins to Aling
His flaring beams, mé, goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak:
Where the rude ax, with heaved stroke,
Was never heard the nymphis 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 honey'd thigh,
That at her flow'ry work doth sing,
And the waler's murmuring,
With such concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy feather'd sleep;
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eyelids laid ;
And as I wake, sweet music breathe,
Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by some spirit to mortal's good,
Or th' unseen genius of the wood,
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antique pillars massy proof;
And storied windows, richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full voic'd quire below,
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, thro' mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all heav'n before nine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may ait and rightly spell
Of ev'ry star that heav'n doth shew,
And ev'ry herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain-
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.

L'ALLEGRO. HENCE, loathed Melancholy!

Of Cerberus, and blackest midnight born! In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights

unholy ! Find out some uncouth cell,

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night raven sings;

There, under cbon shades and low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

But come, thou goddess fair and free,
In heav'n yclep'd Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus at a birth,
With two sister graces more,
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;
Or whether, (as some sager sing)
The frolic wind that breathes the spring,
Zephyr with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a Maying,
There on beds of violets blue,
And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew,
Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful jollity;
Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods and becks, and wreathed smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it as you go,
On the light fantastic toe,
And, in thy right hand, lead with thee,
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty ;
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, adinit me of thy crew;
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free;
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull Night,
From his watch-tow'r in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise ;
Then to come in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good-morrow,
Through the sweet-briar and the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine :
While the cock, with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,

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And to the stack, or the barn-door,
Stoutly struts his dames before :
Oft list’ning how the hounds and horn
Cheerly rouze the slumb'ring morn,
From the side of some hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill:
Some time walking not unseen
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green ;
Right against the eastern gate,
Where the great sun begins his state,
Rob'd in flames and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight;
While the ploughman, near at hand,
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
And the milk-maid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale,
Under the hawthorn in the dale.
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
Whilst the landscape round it measures,
Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray ;
Mountains on whose barren breast
The lab'ring clouds do often rest,
Meadows trim, with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide,
Towers and battlements it sees
Bosom'd high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The Cynosure of neighb'ring eyes.
Hard by, a cottage-chimney smokes,
From betwixt two aged oaks,
Where Corydon and Thirsis met,
Are at their savoury dinner set
Of herbs, and other country-messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses :
And then in haste her bow'r she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ;
Or if the earlier season lead
To the tann'd haycock in the mead,

Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebeçs sound To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the chequer'd shade ; And young and old come forth to play On a sun-shine holy-day. Till the live-long daylight fail; Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, With stories told of many a feat, How Fairy Mab the junkets ate. She was pinch'd, aud pull'd, she said, And he by friars lanthorn led. Tells how the drudging goblin swet, To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn That ten day-lab'rers could not end; Then lies him down, the lubbar fiend, And stretch'd out all the chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength, And crop-full out of doors he fings, Ere the first cock his mattin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, By whisp'ring winds soon lull'd asleep. Tow'red cities please us then, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, With store of ladies whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit, or arms, while both contend To win her grace, whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry, Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer-eves, by haunted stream.

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