Classic Poem

Come Melancholy, heaven-born maid!
Attend thy suppliant's prayer:
She woos thee to the sylvan shade,
The sylvan scene, the moss-grown glade,
Are objects of thy care.
Full oft at eventide,
Where argent streamlets glide
Vernal banks between,
Winding, warbling sweet along
Tufted grass and stones among,
Art thou seen;
Pensive queen,
With step sedate and slow —
Imprinting t th' enamell'd green —
Soft musing as you go
Toward yon humid cell:
Where tenfold echoes dwell —
Returning full the solemn sound,
When thunders burst, and tempests yell:
From yawning caves and depths profound —
Hark it murmurs! — round and round
The undulating measures roll,
Music to the pensive soul!
Mysterious all, and holy,
Fit recess for melancholy.
Come away thrice welcome fair
Lo! I fly to meet thee there,
For there thy much lov'd Milton us'd to stray
From noise and business free;
And Shakespear, Fancy's child, and sweetly plaintive Gray,
Retired full oft to meditate with thee.
'Tis soothing all,
The water's fall;
The brook that chinks along;
The coming breeze
That bends the trees,
The beetle's droning song.
Hither give my feet to stray,
What time pale Hesper sheds his ray;
When Cynthia from the mountain-brow,
Beholds the checker'd vale below,
And sportive throws her silver beams
O'er lucid founts, and twinkling streams.
When moping owl, from time-shook tower
Hails shrill, the deep sequester'd hour;
And Philomela thro' the vale,
Trills soft her love-lamenting tale —
Be mine to seek the cavern'd cell,
Where the babbling echoes dwell,
And the drops besprent with light —
Glittering on the curious sight,
Hang in many a shining row;
Or where adown the sloping side
Wand'ring soft the vagrants glide
Increasing as they go —
Stealing pointed spars between,
Glimm'ring o'er the pebbles sheen;
Oft in wanton maze delighting,
Now dividing, now uniting;
Quick and quicker now they pour
" Descending in a trickling show'r, "
'Till the streamlet on the floor
Winding, wander here, and there, —
Cool, pellucid, fresh and fair:
Now increasing to a rill,
Hark! It rushes down the hill,
Gains at length the level plain;
And steals, in gentle murmurs, to the main.
Thus the Baeotian Mount beside,
Gurgling on in native pride,
Thro' the flow'r-besprinkled vale,
Glides the bright stream of tuneful Acidale.
Oft the Heliconian spring,
Aids the infant Muse's wing,
'Till all sublime she soar,
Mount to new worlds, and mightier themes explore.
Be mine to quaff the mystic draught
Urging on the lab'ring thought,
'Till all-inspired I rise,
Mount the brisk gale, and soar amid the skies!
Aid me goddess, sage, and holy,
Aid me, pensive Melancholy.
Lo! I strike the mystic shell!
Echo answers from the cell!
How the solemn measures swell!
Be hush'd my Muse, attentive stand,
A bard superior sweeps the bounding strings,
Around him wait a fair angelic band,
And wond'ring spirits brighten as he sings!
Thus when angels strike the lyre,
Swelling high the heavenly choir,
Skill'd in the great sublime of song,
Breathe forth th' ecstatic airs, and rise, and pour along.
On yonder cloud bedight in grey,
Whose skirtings catch the lunar-ray —
Sits the great bard; — whose hands divine
Th' immortal lyre explore:
Celestial forms bright hov'ring o'er
Extend their lucid wings:
While kindred spirits flock around,
And catch the sweet harmonious sound,
Enraptur'd as he sings!
'Tis Gray — immortal Gray!
Adown his form in radiant foldings play
The purple vestments bright,
With glift'ning gems bedight,
And all the various hues of vivisying light,
Contrasted full with deep surrounding night.
All hail! sweet bard, sublime, and holy!
Erst the friend of Melancholy.
How flow'd thy numbers while below?
Pensive — soft — and slow —
The melting notes attun'd to woe —
Sunk in the yielding heart;
Full oft thou badst the tear to flow:
Then with the nicest touch of art
Thou to the rising soul cou'd'st purest joys impart.
When thou soar'd'st on daring pinion,
Bards inferior, blest thy skill;
Bending own'd thy high dominion,
All subservient to thy will.
When he to heavenly themes aspired,
I plume'd my vent'rous wing,
Pursued his rapid flight untir'd,
By his immortal verse inspired:
And c'en essay'd to sing: —
To sing, — 'twas then my Muse began,
The yielding chords to try,
And thro' the latent mazes ran
Of melting harmony!
She sought her down the lowly vale,
And up the tow'ring hill:
Her voice oft swell'd the whisp'ring gale,
When drowsy evening's shades prevail,
And copious dews from algid rocks distill.
O, if a mortal voice can rise,
Amid th' immortal choir —
Stoop from thy station in the skies,
That suppliant voice inspire:
To thee, great bard, belong
The mighty powers of song,
Grant me a spark of thy celestial fire,
And touch with mystic sorce, my full resounding lyre.