Il Penseroso
Hence,
vain
deluding
Joys,
The
brood
of
Folly
without
father
bred!
How
little
you
bested
Or
fill
the
fixed
mind
with
all
your
toys!
Dwell
in
some
idle
brain,
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.
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
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
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
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.
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
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:
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
Aye
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
soars
on
golden
wing,
Guiding
the
fiery-wheeled
throne,
The
Cherub
Contemplation;
And
the
mute
Silence
hist
along,
'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.
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
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,
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,
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,
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,
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
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
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,
Or
what
(though
rare)
of
later
age
Ennobled
hath
the
buskined
stage.
But,
O
sad
Virgin!
that
thy
power
Might
raise
Musaeus
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
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;
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.
Thus,
Night,
oft
see
me
in
thy
pale
career,
Till
civil-suited
Morn
appear,
Not
tricked
and
frounced,
as
she
was
wont
With
the
Attic
boy
to
hunt,
But
kerchieft
in
a
comely
cloud
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.
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,
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,
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,
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;
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
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.
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,
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
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;
And
I
with
thee
will
choose
to
live.
