For there, immers’d in heavenly thought profound,
Deep Wisdom rov’d, whose sable robes were seen
To sweep with awful majesty the ground.
Bent o’er an urn, pale Melancholy stood,
With Pity’s smile soft melting in her eye;
Around her feet, in visionary mood,
The weeping spectres float in sorrow by.
There Contemplation held her awful reign,
And Fear, methought, burst thro’ the low’ring gloom:
While sounds terrific whisper’d in the gale,