Il Penseroso

Hence, vain deluding joys, The brood of Folly without father bred! How little you bestead, Or fill the fixèd 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 sunbeams,— Or likest hovering dreams, The tickle 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, While 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 cyprus-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-wheelèd 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 shun’st the noise of folly,— Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chantress, 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 out-watch 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 under ground, 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 Musæus 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 Canacè 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 tourneys 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 kerchiefed 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 archèd walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, Of pine, or monumental oak, Where the rude axe with heavèd 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 embowèd 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.