Queen of the halcyon breast, and heav'n-ward eye,
Sweet Contemplation, with thy ray benign,
Light my lone passage thro' the vale of life,
And raise this seige of care; this silent hour
To thee is sacred, when the star of eve,
(Like Dian's virgins trembling near the bath),
Shoots o'er the Hesperian wave its quiv'ring ray;
All nature joins to fill my lab'ring breast
With high sensations; awful silence reigns
Above, around; the sounding winds no more,
Wild thro' the fluctuating forest fly
With gust impetuous; zephyrs scarcely breathe
Upon the trembling foliage; flocks and herds
Retir'd beneath the friendly shade repose,
Fann'd by oblivion's wing. Ha! is not this,
This the dread hour, as ancient fables tell,
When flitting spirits, from their prisons broke,
By moonlight glide along the dusky vales,
The solemn church-yard, or the dreary groves,
Fond to revisit their once lov'd abodes,
And view each friendly scene of past delight.
Satyrs and Fawns, that in sequester'd woods,
And deep embow'ring shades delight to dwell,
Quitting their caves, (where in the reign of day
They slept in silence), o'er the daisy'd green
Pursue their gambols, and with printless feet,
Chase the fleet shadows o'er the waving plains.
Dryads and Naids, from each spring and grove
Trip blythesome o'er the lawns; or near the side
Of mossy fountains, sport in Cynthia's beams.
The fairy elves attendant on their queen,
With light steps, bound along the velvet mead,
And leave the green impression of their dance,
In rings mysterious to the passing swain,
While the pellucid glowworm kindly lends
Her silver lamp to light the festive scene.
From yon majestic piles, in ruin great,
Whose lofty tow'rs once, on approaching foes
Look'd stern defiance; the sad bird of night,
In mournful accent, to the moon complains,
Those tow'rs with ven'rable ivy crown'd,
And mould'ring into ruin, yield no more
A safe retirement to the hostile band;
But there, the lonely bat that shuns the day,
Dwells in dull solitude; and screaming thence,
Wheels the night raven shrill with hideous note,
Portending death to the dejected swain.
Each plant, and flow'ret, bath'd in ev'ning dews,
Exhal'd refreshing sweets; from the smooth lake,
On whose still bosom sleeps the tall trees shade,
The moon's soft rays reflected mildly shines.
Now tow'ring fancy takes her airy flight,
Without restraint, and leaves this earth behind;
From pole to pole, from world to world, she flies,
Rocks, seas, nor skies, can intercept her course.
Is this, what man, to thought estrang'd, miscalls
Despondence? this dull melancholy's scene;
To trace th' eternal cause thro' all his works
Minutely, and magnificently wise;
Mark the gradations which thro' nature's plan,
Join each to each, and form the vast design.
And tho' day's glorious guide withdraws his beams
Impartial, chearing other skies and shores,
Rich intellect, that scorns corporeal bands,
With more than mid-day radiance yields the scene.
The mind, now rescu'd from the cares of day,
Roves unrestrain'd thro' the wide realms of space,
Where thought stupendous! systems infinite!
In regular confusion, taught to move,
Like gems, bespangle yon etherial plains.
Ye sons of pleasure and ye foes to thought,
Who search for bliss in the capacious bowl,
And blindly woo intemperance for joy, —
Durst ye retire, hold converse with yourselves,
And in the silent hours of darkness, court
Kind Contemplation, with her peaceful train;
How would the minutes dance on downy feet,
And unperceiv'd the mid-night taper waste!
While intellectual pleasure reign'd supreme.
Ye muses, graces, virtues, heav'n born maids,
Who love in peaceful solitude to dwell
With meek ey'd innocence, and radiant truth,
And blushing modesty; that frighted fly
The dark intrigue, and mid-night masquerade;
What is this pleasure that enchants mankind?
'Tis noise, 'tis toil, 'tis frenzy, like the cup
Of C IRCE , fam'd of old, who tastes it finds
Th' etherial spark divine to brute transform'd.
And now methinks I hear the libertine
With supercilious leer, cry, preach no more
Your musty morals; hence to desarts fly,
And in the gloom of solitary caves
Austerely dwell. What's life, debar'd from joy?
Crown, then, the bowl, let music lend her aid,
And beauty her's, to soothe my wayward cares.
Ah! little does he know the nymph he stiles
A foe to pleasure! pleasure is not more
His aim than her's, with him she joins to blame
The hermit's gloom, and savage penances,
Each social joy approves. Oh! without thee,
The page of fancy would no longer charm,
And solitude disgust e'en pensive minds.
Nought I condemn, but that excess which clouds
The mental faculties, to soothe the sense;
Let reason, truth, and virtue, guide thy steps,
And every blessing heav'n bestows, be thine.
Sweet Contemplation, with thy ray benign,
Light my lone passage thro' the vale of life,
And raise this seige of care; this silent hour
To thee is sacred, when the star of eve,
(Like Dian's virgins trembling near the bath),
Shoots o'er the Hesperian wave its quiv'ring ray;
All nature joins to fill my lab'ring breast
With high sensations; awful silence reigns
Above, around; the sounding winds no more,
Wild thro' the fluctuating forest fly
With gust impetuous; zephyrs scarcely breathe
Upon the trembling foliage; flocks and herds
Retir'd beneath the friendly shade repose,
Fann'd by oblivion's wing. Ha! is not this,
This the dread hour, as ancient fables tell,
When flitting spirits, from their prisons broke,
By moonlight glide along the dusky vales,
The solemn church-yard, or the dreary groves,
Fond to revisit their once lov'd abodes,
And view each friendly scene of past delight.
Satyrs and Fawns, that in sequester'd woods,
And deep embow'ring shades delight to dwell,
Quitting their caves, (where in the reign of day
They slept in silence), o'er the daisy'd green
Pursue their gambols, and with printless feet,
Chase the fleet shadows o'er the waving plains.
Dryads and Naids, from each spring and grove
Trip blythesome o'er the lawns; or near the side
Of mossy fountains, sport in Cynthia's beams.
The fairy elves attendant on their queen,
With light steps, bound along the velvet mead,
And leave the green impression of their dance,
In rings mysterious to the passing swain,
While the pellucid glowworm kindly lends
Her silver lamp to light the festive scene.
From yon majestic piles, in ruin great,
Whose lofty tow'rs once, on approaching foes
Look'd stern defiance; the sad bird of night,
In mournful accent, to the moon complains,
Those tow'rs with ven'rable ivy crown'd,
And mould'ring into ruin, yield no more
A safe retirement to the hostile band;
But there, the lonely bat that shuns the day,
Dwells in dull solitude; and screaming thence,
Wheels the night raven shrill with hideous note,
Portending death to the dejected swain.
Each plant, and flow'ret, bath'd in ev'ning dews,
Exhal'd refreshing sweets; from the smooth lake,
On whose still bosom sleeps the tall trees shade,
The moon's soft rays reflected mildly shines.
Now tow'ring fancy takes her airy flight,
Without restraint, and leaves this earth behind;
From pole to pole, from world to world, she flies,
Rocks, seas, nor skies, can intercept her course.
Is this, what man, to thought estrang'd, miscalls
Despondence? this dull melancholy's scene;
To trace th' eternal cause thro' all his works
Minutely, and magnificently wise;
Mark the gradations which thro' nature's plan,
Join each to each, and form the vast design.
And tho' day's glorious guide withdraws his beams
Impartial, chearing other skies and shores,
Rich intellect, that scorns corporeal bands,
With more than mid-day radiance yields the scene.
The mind, now rescu'd from the cares of day,
Roves unrestrain'd thro' the wide realms of space,
Where thought stupendous! systems infinite!
In regular confusion, taught to move,
Like gems, bespangle yon etherial plains.
Ye sons of pleasure and ye foes to thought,
Who search for bliss in the capacious bowl,
And blindly woo intemperance for joy, —
Durst ye retire, hold converse with yourselves,
And in the silent hours of darkness, court
Kind Contemplation, with her peaceful train;
How would the minutes dance on downy feet,
And unperceiv'd the mid-night taper waste!
While intellectual pleasure reign'd supreme.
Ye muses, graces, virtues, heav'n born maids,
Who love in peaceful solitude to dwell
With meek ey'd innocence, and radiant truth,
And blushing modesty; that frighted fly
The dark intrigue, and mid-night masquerade;
What is this pleasure that enchants mankind?
'Tis noise, 'tis toil, 'tis frenzy, like the cup
Of C IRCE , fam'd of old, who tastes it finds
Th' etherial spark divine to brute transform'd.
And now methinks I hear the libertine
With supercilious leer, cry, preach no more
Your musty morals; hence to desarts fly,
And in the gloom of solitary caves
Austerely dwell. What's life, debar'd from joy?
Crown, then, the bowl, let music lend her aid,
And beauty her's, to soothe my wayward cares.
Ah! little does he know the nymph he stiles
A foe to pleasure! pleasure is not more
His aim than her's, with him she joins to blame
The hermit's gloom, and savage penances,
Each social joy approves. Oh! without thee,
The page of fancy would no longer charm,
And solitude disgust e'en pensive minds.
Nought I condemn, but that excess which clouds
The mental faculties, to soothe the sense;
Let reason, truth, and virtue, guide thy steps,
And every blessing heav'n bestows, be thine.