IL PENSEROSO.
Hence, vain deluding Joys,
The brood of Folly without father bred!
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys!
Dwell in some idle brain, 5
And fancies [fond] with gaudy shapes possess,
As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the sun-beams,
Or likest hovering dreams,
The fickle pensioners of [Morpheus’] train. 10
But, hail! thou Goddess sage and holy!
Hail, divinest [Melancholy]!
Whose saintly visage is too bright
[To hit the sense of human sight],
And therefore to our weaker view, 15
O’erlaid with black, staid Wisdom’s hue;
Black, but such as in esteem
[Prince Memnon’s] sister might beseem,
Or [that starred Ethiop queen] that strove
To set her beauty’s praise above 20
The Sea-Nymphs, and their powers offended.
Yet thou art higher far descended:
Thee [bright-haired Vesta] long of yore
To solitary Saturn bore;
His daughter she; in Saturn’s reign 25
Such mixture was not held a stain.
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida’s inmost grove,
[Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove]. 30
Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
[All in a robe of darkest grain],
Flowing with majestic train,
[And sable stole of cypress lawn] 35
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
[Come; but keep thy wonted state],
With even step, and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies
[Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes]: 40
There, held in holy passion still,
[Forget thyself to marble], till
[With a sad leaden downward cast]
Thou fix them on the earth as fast.
[And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet], 45
[Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet],
And hears the Muses in a ring
[Aye] round about Jove’s altar sing;
And add to these retired Leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; 50
But, first and chiefest, with thee bring
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding [the fiery-wheeled throne],
And the mute Silence [hist] along, 55
[‘Less Philomel will deign a song],
In her sweetest, saddest [plight],
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
While [Cynthia checks her dragon yoke]
Gently o’er the accustomed oak. 60
Sweet bird, that shunn’st the noise of folly,
[Most musical, most melancholy!]
Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among
I woo, to hear thy even-song;
And, missing thee, I [walk unseen] 65
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandering moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heaven’s wide pathless way, 70
And oft, as if her head she bowed,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft, on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfew sound,
Over some wide-watered shore, 75
Swinging slow with sullen roar;
[Or, if the air will not permit],
Some still [removed] place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, 80
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman’s drowsy charm
To bless the doors from nightly harm.
Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, 85
Be seen in some high lonely tower,
Where I may oft [outwatch the Bear],
[With thrice great Hermes], or unsphere
The spirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds or what vast regions hold 90
The immortal mind that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook;
And of those [demons] that are found
In fire, air, flood, or underground,
Whose power hath a true consent 95
With planet or with element.
[Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy]
In sceptred pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops’ line,
Or the tale of Troy divine, 100
Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath [the buskined stage].
But, O sad Virgin! that thy power
Might raise [Musæus] from his bower;
[Or bid] the soul of [Orpheus] sing 105
Such notes as, [warbled to the string],
Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,
And made Hell grant what love did seek;
[Or call up him that left half-told]
The story of Cambuscan bold, 110
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That owned the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass
On which the Tartar king did ride; 115
And if aught else great bards beside
In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of turneys, and of trophies hung,
Of forests, and enchantments drear,
Where [more is meant than meets the ear]. 120
[Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career],
Till [civil-suited Morn] appear,
Not tricked and frounced, [as she was wont]
But [kerchieft] in a comely cloud, 125
While [rocking winds] are piping loud
[Or ushered with a shower still],
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
[With minute-drops from off the eaves]. 130
And, [when the sun begins] to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown, that [Sylvan] loves,
Of pine, or [monumental oak], 135
Where the rude axe with heaved stroke
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.
There, in close covert, by some brook,
[Where no profaner eye may look], 140
[Hide me from day’s garish eye],
[While the bee with honeyed thigh],
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,
With such consort as they keep, 145
[Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep].
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at [his] wings, in airy stream
Of lively portraiture displayed,
Softly on my eyelids laid; 150
And, as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,
Or the unseen [Genius of the wood].
But let my due feet [never fail] 155
[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. 160
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voiced quire below,
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies, 165
And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
[Where I may sit and rightly spell] 170
Of every star that heaven doth shew,
And every herb that sips the dew,
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give; 175
And I with thee will choose to live.