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Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove.
Come pensive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, stedfast, and demure,
All in robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestick train,
And fable stole of Cypress Lawn,
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted itate,
With even step, and musing gate,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt foul sitting in thine eyes:
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,
Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring
Ay round about Jove's Altar sing ;
And add to these retired Leisure,
That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure.
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,
Him, that yon foars on golden wing:
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The Cherub Contemplation,
And the mute Silence hift along ;
'Less Philomel will deign a Song,
In her sweetest, faddelt plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night ;
While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke
Gently o'er th' accustom'd Oak:
Sweet Bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!
The chauntress of the Woods among
I woo to hear thy Even-Song:
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven Green,

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To belold the wand'ring Moon
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the Heav'ns wide pathless way;
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud,
Oit on a Plat of rising ground
I hear the far off Curfeu found,
Over fome wide-water'd shoar,
Swinging flow with sullen roar.
Or if the Air will not permit,
Some itill removed place will fit,
Where glowing Embers through the room
Teich light to counterfeit a gloom ;
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the Cricket on the hearth,
Or the Belman's drowsie charm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm.
Or let my Lamp at midnight hour
Be seen in me high lonely Tow'r,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear
The spirit of Plato, to unfold
What Worlds, or what vast Regions hold
Th' immortal Mind, that hath forsook
Her maniion in this Athly nook :
And of those Dæmons, that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,

power hath a true consent
With Planet, or with Element.
Sometimes let gorgeous Tragedy
In scepter'd

Pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes or Pelops' line,
Or the rale of Troy divine:
Or what (though rare) of later age,
Ennobled hath the Bulkin'd stage.
But, О fad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Mujæus from his bower,


Or bid the Soul of Orpheus sing
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,
Of Camball, and of Algarfife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That own'd the virtuous Ring and Glass,
And of the wondrous Horse of Brass,
On which the Tartar King did ride ;
And if ought else, great Bards beside,
In fage and solemn tunes have fung,
Of Turnies and of Trophies hung ;
Of Forests, and Inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus, night, oft fee me in thy pale career,
Till civil-suited Morn appear,
Not trickt and frounc't, as she was wont,
With the Att'ck Boy to hunt,
Bat chercheft in a comely Cloud,
While rocking Winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the russling Leaves,
With minute drops from off the Eaves.
And when the Sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
Toarched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
Of Pine, or monumental Oak,
Where the rude Ax with heaved stroke
Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt;
There in clofe covert by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from Day's garish eye,
While the Bee with honied thigh,


That at her flow'ry work doth fing,
And the Waters murmuring,
With such consort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream,
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid:
And, as I wake, sweet mufick breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unseen Genius of the Wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious Cloysters pale,
And love the high embowed Roof,
With antique Pillars maffy proof,
And storied Windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light:
There let the pealing Organ blow,
'To the full-voic'd Choir below,
In Service high, and Anthems clear,
As may with swiftness through mine ear
Diffolve me into extasies,
And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy Gown, and mosfy Cell,
Where I may fit, and rightly spell

Star that heav'n doth shew,
And every Herb that fips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To something like Prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy

, give, And I with thee will choose to live.


ARCADES. Part of an Entertainment presented to the

Countess Dowager of Derby at Harefield; by Some Noble Persons of her Family, whe appear on the Scene in Paforal Habit, moving toward the Seat of State, with this Song:


OOK Nymphs, and Shepherds look!

What sudden blaze of Majesty
Is that which we from hence descry,
Too divine to be minook ?

This, this is the
To whom our vows and wishes bend,
Here our solemn search hath end.
Fame, that her high worth to raise,
Seem'd erlt fo lavish and profuse,
We may justly now accuse
Of detraction from her praise ;

Less than half we find exprest,

Envy bid conceal the rest.
Mark what radiant state the spreads,
In circle round her shining throne,
Shooting her beams like silver threads:
This, ti is is the alone,

Sitting like a Goddess bright,

In the center of her light.
Might she the wise Latona be,
Or the towred Cybele,
Mother of a hundred gods,
Juno dares not give her odds ;


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