Ode to Melancholy, An

Melancholy! blue-eyed maid,
Clad in simple russet stole,
Thou who lov'st the silent shade,
And weep'st where murmuring rivulets roll,
Calmer of the troubled breast,
Heaving wild with passion's throe,
Thou who lay'st the heart at rest,
And cool'st distraction's fevered glow!
When thou leanest o'er the rill,
And minglest with its wave thy tear,
O, what sounds the woodland fill,
And softly whisper in my ear!
Come then, enchanting Melancholy,
Thou sweetest mistress of my heart!
Come, let us leave the haunts of folly,
And taste the joys that ne'er depart.

Melancholy! maid of Heaven!
Thine are pleasures known by few, —
Joys to favorites only given, —
Joys that soothe like summer dew;
Thine the harp, whose golden wire
Bids Heaven's sweetest music roll,
Kindling with a seraph's fire,
And calmly stealing to the soul.
When thou pour'st the dying strain,
Naiads smile along the wave,
Shepherds listen on the plain,
And hermits in the mountain cave.
Come then, &c.

Melancholy! Pity's child!
Turn on me thine eye of blue,
Soft as when affection smiled,
Or wept compassion's purest dew;
Wake thy voice that charms the grove,
Breathe thy calmest, sweetest lay, —
Strike thy silver chord of love,
And drive the cruel fiend away;
For thou sooth'st the tortured heart
To a holy, heavenly calm,
And gently heal'st affliction's smart
With thy music's softening balm.
Come then, &c.

Angel of the green-wood shade!
Let me lie on moss reclined,
When the hues of evening fade,
And calmly blows the fragrant wind, —
Let me lie beside thy rill,
And view the stream that ripples by,
Till my soul shall drink its fill
Of thy delightful melody.
O, how soft, how sweet, how mild,
All the sounds that kiss thy string!
How they echo from the wild,
And in the flowery valleys ring!
Come then, &c.

Melancholy! dearest maid,
Bending low thine eyes of blue!
Roam the gently opening glade,
And thickets gemmed with morning dew;
Seek the cool, sequestered cave,
When the noon is glowing bright;
Rest where forests slowly wave,
And floats a faintly trembling light.
Where'er thou rov'st at early dawn,
Or sit'st, when glows the noontide sky,
Dearer at night the quiet lawn
And winding rill that ripples by.
Come then, enchanting Melancholy,
Thou sweetest mistress of my heart;
Come, let us leave the haunts of folly,
And taste the joys that ne'er depart.
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