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Th’ enchanted shores of Circe's isle,
Lady, from all their painted pride, Come, let the Shepherd be thy guide: He'll lead thee to the fountain's brink, Where all the Sylvan Muses drink; Whose spotless and translucent lace Heaven reflects with Heaven's own grace, And pure at once, and yet refin'd, Presents a mirror to the mind. He'll lead thee (go with him along) Where Greene's sweet Muse attunes her song, And plays her not unusual part, Mixing simplicity with art. Thy Genius shall according move, And, self-approving, her approve.
ODE TO MELANCHOLY.
Hail, queen of thought sublime! propitious
pow'r, Who o'er th’unbounded waste art joy'd to roam, Led by the moon, when, at the midnight hour, Her pale rays tremble through the dusky gloom.
O bear me, Goddess, to thy peaceful seat! Whether to Hecla's cloud-wrapt brow convey’d, Orlodg’d where mountains screen thy deep retreat, Or wand’ring wild through Chili's boundless
Say, rove thy steps o'er Libya's naked waste ?
Fix'd on some hanging rock’s projected brow, Hear’st thou low murmurs from the distant dome? Or stray thy feet where pale, dejected Woe Pours her long wail from some lamented tomb?
Hark! yon deep echo strikes the trembling ear! See night's dun curtain wraps the darksome pole! O'er heaven’s blue arch yon rolling worlds appear, And rouse to solemn thought th’aspiring soul.
O lead my, steps beneath the moon's dim ray, Where Tadmor stands all desert and alone! While from her time-shook tow?rs the bird of prey Sounds through the night her long-resounding
Or bear me far to yon dark, dismal plain, Where fell-eyed tigers, all athirst for blood, Howl to the desert; while the horrid train Roams o'er the wild where once great Babel
That queen of nations! whose superior call Rous'd the broad East, and bid her arms destroy! When warm’d to mirth, let judgment mark her fall, And deep reflection dash the lip of joy.
Short is Ambition's gay, deceitful dream,
Slow as some miner saps th' aspiring tow'r, When working secret with destructive aim, Unseen, unheard, thus moves the stealing hour, But works the fall of empire, pomp, and name.
Then let thy pencil mark the traits of man;
Beneath the plume that flames with glancing rays - Be Care's deep engines on the soul impress'd;
Beneath the helmet's keen refulgent blaze
Let Love's gay sons, a smiling train, appear, With beauty pierc'd—yet heedless of the dart; While, closely couch’d, pale, sick’ning Envy near Whets her fell sting, and points it at the heart.
Perch’d, like a raven, on some blasted yew,
Then paint, impending o'er the maddening deep, That rock, where heart-struck Sappho, vainly
brave, Stood firm of soul--then from the dizzy steep Impetuous sprung, and dash'd the boiling wave.