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THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY. A POEM.
—Praecipe lugubres
Cantus, Melpomene!— HOR.
LONDON: Printed for R. DODSLEY at Tully's Head in Pall-mall; and ſold by M. COOPER at the Globe in Pater-noſter-Row. 1747. (Price One Shilling.)
THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY.
[]MOther of Muſings, Contemplation ſage,
Whoſe manſion is upon the topmoſt cliff
Of cloud-capt Teneriff, in ſecret bow'r;
Where ever wrapt in meditation high,
Thou hear'ſt unmov'd, in dark tempeſtuous night,
The loud winds howl around, the beating rain
[4]And the big hail in mingling ſtorm deſcend
Upon his horrid brow. But when the ſkies
Unclouded ſhine, and thro' the blue ſerene
Pale Cynthia rolls her ſilver-axled car,
Then ever looking on the ſpangled vault
Raptur'd thou ſit'ſt, while murmurs indiſtinct
Of diſtant billows ſooth thy penſive ear
With hoarſe and hollow ſounds; ſecure, ſelf-bleſt,
Oft too thou liſten'ſt to the wild uproar
Of fleets encount'ring, that in whiſpers low
Aſcends the rocky ſummit, where thou dwell'ſt
Remote from man, converſing with the ſpheres.
O lead me, black-brow'd [...], to ſolemn glooms
Cogenial with my ſoul, to chearleſs ſhades,
To ruin'd ſeats, to twilight cells and bow'rs,
Where thoughtful Melancholy loves to muſe,
[5]Her fav'rite midnight haunts. The laughing ſcenes
Of purple Spring, where all the wanton train
Of Smiles and Graces ſeem to lead the dance
In ſportive round, while from their hands they ſhow'r
Ambroſial blooms and flow'rs, no longer charm;
Tempe, no more I court thy balmy breeze,
Adieu green vales! embroider'd meads adieu!
Beneath yon' ruin'd Abbey's moſs-grown piles
Oft let me ſit, at twilight hour of Eve,
Where thro' ſome weſtern window the pale moon
Pours her long-levell'd rule of ſtreaming light;
While ſullen ſacred ſilence reigns around,
Save the lone Screech-owl's note, whoſe bow'r is built
Amid the mould'ring caverns dark and damp,
And the calm breeze, that ruſtles in the leaves
[6]Of flaunting Ivy, that with mantle green
Inveſts ſome ſacred tow'r. Or let me tread
It's neighb'ring walk of pines, where ſtray'd of old
The cloyſter'd brothers: thro' the gloomy void
That far extends beneath their ample arch
As on I tread, religious horror wraps
My ſoul in dread repoſe. But when the world
Is clad in Midnight's raven-colour'd robe,
In hollow charnel let me watch the flame
Of taper dim, while airy voices talk
Along the glimm'ring walls, or ghoſtly ſhape
At diſtance ſeen, invites with beck'ning hand
My loneſome ſteps, thro' the far-winding vaults.
Nor undelightful is the ſolemn noon
Of night, when haply wakeful from my couch
I ſtart: lo, all is motionleſs around!
[7]Roars not the ruſhing wind, the ſons of men
And every beaſt in mute oblivion lie;
All Nature's huſh'd in ſilence and in ſleep.
O then how fearful is it to reflect,
That thro' the ſolitude of the ſtill globe
No Being wakes but me! 'till ſtealing ſleep
My drooping temples baths in opiate dews.
Nor then let dreams, of wanton Folly born,
My ſenſes lead thro' flowery paths of joy;
But let the ſacred Genius of the night
Such myſtic viſions ſend, as SPENSER ſaw,
When thro' bewild'ring Fancy's magic maze,
To the bright regions of the fairy world
Soar'd his creative mind: or MILTON knew,
When in abſtracted thought he firſt conceiv'd
[8]All heav'n in tumult, and the Seraphim
Come tow'ring, arm'd in adamant and gold.
Let others love the Summer-ev'ning's ſmiles,
As liſt'ning to ſome diſtant water-fall
They mark the bluſhes of the ſtreaky weſt:
I chooſe the pale December's foggy glooms;
Then, when the ſullen ſhades of Ev'ning cloſe,
Where thro' the room a blindly-glimm'ring gleam
The dying embers ſcatter, far remote
From Mirth's mad ſhouts, that thro' the lighted roof
Reſound with feſtive echo, let me ſit,
Bleſt with the lowly cricket's drowſy dirge.
Then let my contemplative thought explore
This fleeting ſtate of things, the vain delights,
The fruitleſs toils, that ſtill elude our ſearch,
[9]As thro' the wilderneſs of life we rove.
This ſober hour of ſilence will unmaſk
Falſe Folly's ſmiles, that like the dazling ſpells
Of wily Comus, cheat th' unweeting eye
With blear illuſion, and perſuade to drink
The charmed cup, that Reaſon's mintage fair
Unmoulds, and ſtamps the monſter on the man.
Eager we taſte, but in the luſcious draught
Forget the pois'nous dregs that lurk beneath.
Few know that Elegance of ſoul refin'd,
Whoſe ſoft ſenſation feels a quicker joy
From Melancholy's ſcenes, than the dull pride
Of taſteleſs ſplendor and magnificence
Can e'er afford. Thus Eloiſe, whoſe mind
Had languiſh'd to the pangs of melting love,
[10]More ſecret tranſport found, as on ſome tomb
Reclin'd ſhe watch'd the tapers of the dead,
Or thro' the pillar'd iſles, amid the ſhrines
Of imag'd ſaints, and intermingled graves,
Which ſcarce the ſtory'd windows dim diſclos'd,
Muſing ſhe wander'd; than Coſmelia finds,
As thro' the Mall in ſilken pomp array'd,
She floats amid the gilded ſons of dreſs,
And ſhines the faireſt of th' aſſembled Belles.
When azure noon-tide chears the daedal globe,
And the glad regent of the golden day
Rejoices in his bright meridian bow'r,
How oft my wiſhes aſk the night's return,
That beſt befriends the melancholy mind!
Hail, ſacred Night! to thee my ſong I raiſe!
[11]Siſter of ebon-ſcepter'd Hecat, hail!
Whether in congregated clouds thou wrap'ſt
Thy viewleſs chariot, or with ſilver crown
Thy beaming head encircleſt, ever hail!
What tho' beneath thy gloom the Lapland witch
Oft celebrates her moon-eclipſing rites;
Tho' Murther wan, beneath thy ſhrouding ſhade
Oft calls her ſilent vot'ries to deviſe
Of blood and ſlaughter, while by one blue lamp
In ſecret conf'rence ſits the liſt'ning band,
And ſtart at each low wind, or wakeful ſound:
What tho' thy ſtay the Pilgrim curſes oft,
As all benighted in Arabian waſtes
He hears the howling wilderneſs reſound
With roaming monſters, while on his hoar head
The black-deſcending tempeſt ceaſeleſs beats;
[12]Yet more delightful to my penſive mind
Is thy return, than bloomy Morn's approach,
When from the portals of the ſaffron Eaſt
She ſheds freſh roſes and ambroſial dews.
Yet not ungrateful is the Morn's approach,
When dropping wet ſhe comes, and clad in clouds,
While thro' the damp air ſcowls the peeviſh South,
And the duſk landſchape riſes dim to view.
Th' afflicted ſongſters of the ſadden'd groves
Hail not the ſullen gloom, but ſilent droop;
The waving elms, that rang'd in thick array,
Encloſe with ſtately row ſome rural hall,
Are mute, nor echo with the clamors hoarſe
Of rooks rejoicing on their hoary boughs:
While to the ſhed the dripping poultry croud,
A mournful train: ſecure the village-hind
[13]Hangs o'er the crackling blaze, nor tempts the ſtorm;
Rings not the high wood with enliv'ning ſhouts
Of early hunter: all is ſilence drear;
And deepeſt ſadneſs wraps the face of things.
Thro' POPE's ſoft ſong tho' all the Graces breath,
And happieſt art adorn his Attic page;
Yet does my mind with ſweeter tranſport glow,
As at the foot of ſome hoar oak reclin'd,
In magic SPENSER's wildly-warbled ſong
I ſee deſerted Una wander wide
Thro' waſteful ſolitudes, and lurid heaths,
Weary, forlorn, than when the † fated Fair,
Upon the boſom bright of ſilver Thames,
Launches in all the luſtre of Brocade,
[14]Amid the ſplendors of the laughing Sun.
The gay deſcription palls upon the ſenſe,
And coldly ſtrikes the mind with feeble bliſs.
O wrap me then in ſhades of darkſom pine,
Bear me to caves by deſolation brown,
To duſky vales, and hermit-haunted rocks!
And hark, methinks reſounding from the gloom
The voice of Melancholy ſtrikes mine ear;
"Come, leave the buſy trifles of vain life,
"And let theſe twilight manſions teach thy mind
"The Joys of Muſing, and of ſolemn Thought."
Ye youths of Albion's beauty-blooming iſle,
Whoſe brows have worn the wreath of luckleſs love,
Is there a pleaſure like the penſive mood,
[15]Whoſe magic wont to ſooth your ſoften'd ſouls?
O tell how rapt'rous is the deep-felt bliſs
To melt to Melody's aſſuaſive voice,
Careleſs to ſtray the midnight mead along,
And pour your ſorrows to the pitying moon,
Oft interrupted by the Bird of Woe!
To muſe by margin of romantic ſtream,
To fly to ſolitudes, and there forget
The ſolemn dulneſs of the tedious world,
'Till in abſtracted dreams of fancy loſt,
Eager you ſnatch the viſionary fair,
And on the phantom feaſt your cheated gaze!
Sudden you ſtart—th' imagin'd joys recede,
The ſame ſad proſpect opens on your ſenſe;
And nought is ſeen but deep-extended trees
In hollow rows, and your awaken'd ear
[16]Again attends the neighb'ring fountain's ſound.
Theſe are delights that abſence drear has made
Familiar to my ſoul, er'e ſince the form
Of young Sapphira, beauteous as the Spring,
When from her vi'let-woven couch awak'd
By frolic Zephyr's hand, her tender cheek
Graceful ſhe lifts, and bluſhing from her bow'r,
Iſſues to cloath in gladſome-gliſt'ring green
The genial globe, firſt met my dazled ſight.
Theſe are delights unknown to minds profane,
And which alone the penſive ſoul can taſte.
The taper'd choir, at midnight hour of Pray'r,
Oft let me tread, while to th' according voice
The many-ſounding organ peals on high,
In full-voic'd chorus thro' th' embowed roof;
[17]'Till all my ſoul is bath'd in ecſtaſies,
And lap'd in Paradiſe. Or let me ſit
Far in ſome diſtant iſle of the deep dome,
There loneſome liſten to the ſolemn ſounds,
Which, as they lengthen thro' the Gothic vaults,
In hollow murmurs reach my raviſh'd ear.
Nor let me fail to cultivate my mind
With the ſoft thrillings of the tragic Muſe,
Divine Melpomene, ſweet Pity's nurſe,
Queen of the ſtately ſtep, and flowing pall.
Now let Monimia mourn with ſtreaming eyes
Her joys inceſtuous, and polluted love:
Now let Caliſta dye the deſperate ſteel
Within her boſom, for loſt innocence,
Unable to behold a father weep.
[18]Or Jaffeir kneel for one forgiving look;
Nor ſeldom let the Moor on Deſdemone
Pour the miſguided threats of jealous rage.
By ſoft degrees the manly torrent ſteals
From my ſwoln eyes, and at a brother's woe
My big heart melts in ſympathizing tears.
What are the ſplendors of the gaudy court,
It's tinſel trappings, and it's pageant pomps?
To me far happier ſeems the baniſh'd Lord
Amid Siberia's unrejoycing wilds
Who pines all loneſome, in the chambers hoar
Of ſome high caſtle ſhut, whoſe windows dim
In diſtant ken diſcover trackleſs plains,
Where Winter ever drives his icy car;
While ſtill repeated objects of his view,
[19]The gloomy battlements, and ivied tow'rs
That crown the ſolitary dome, ariſe;
While from the topmoſt turret the ſlow clock
Far heard along th' inhoſpitable waſtes
With ſad-returning chime, awakes new grief;
Than is the Satrap whom he left behind
In Moſcow's regal palaces, to drown
In eaſe and luxury the laughing hours.
Illuſtrious objects ſtrike the gazer's mind
With feeble bliſs, and but allure the ſight,
Nor rouze with impulſe quick the feeling heart.
Thus ſeen by ſhepherd from Hymettus' brow,
What painted landſchapes ſpread their charms beneath?
Here palmy groves, amid whoſe umbrage green
Th' unfading olive lifts her ſilver head,
[20]Reſounding once with Plato's voice, ariſe:
Here vine-clad hills unfold their purple ſtores,
Here fertile vales their level lap expand,
Amid whoſe beauties gliſtering Athens tow'rs.
Tho' thro' the graceful ſeats Iliſſus roll
His ſage-inſpiring flood, whoſe fabled banks
The ſpreading laurel ſhades, tho' roſeate Morn
Pour all her ſplendors on th' empurpled ſcene,
Yet feels the muſing Hermit truer joys,
As from the cliff that o'er his cavern hangs,
He views the piles of fall'n Perſepolis
In deep arrangement hide the darkſome plain.
Unbounded waſte! the mould'ring Obeliſc
Here, like a blaſted oak, aſcends the clouds;
Here Parian domes their vaulted halls diſcloſe
Horrid with thorn, where lurks the ſecret thief,
[21]Whence flits the twilight-loving bat at eve,
And the deaf adder wreaths her ſpotted train,
The dwellings once of Elegance and Art.
Here temples riſe, amid whoſe hallow'd bounds
Spires the black pine, while thro' the naked ſtreet,
Haunt of the tradeful merchant, ſprings the graſs:
Here columns heap'd on proſtrate columns, torn
From their firm baſe, encreaſe the mould'ring maſs.
Far as the ſight can pierce, appear the ſpoils
Of ſunk magnificence: a blended ſcene
Of moles, fanes, arches, domes, and palaces,
Where, with his brother horror, ruin ſits.
O come then, Melancholy, queen of thought,
O come with ſaintly look and ſtedfaſt ſtep,
From forth thy cave embower'd with mournful yew,
[]Where ever to the cu [...] [...] ſound
Liſt'ning thou ſitt'ſt, and [...] [...]reſs bind
Thy votary's hair, and ſeal him ſ [...]y ſon.
But never let Euphroſyne beguile
With toys of wanton mirth my fixed mind,
Nor with her primroſe garlands ſtrew my paths.
What tho' with her the dimpled Hebe dwells,
With young-ey'd Pleaſure, and the looſe-rob'd Joy;
Tho' Venus, mother of the Smiles and Loves,
And Bacchus, ivy-crown'd, in myrtle bow'r
With her in dance fantaſtic beat the ground:
What tho' 'tis her's to calm the blue ſerene,
And at her preſence mild the low'ring clouds
Diſperſe in air, and o'er the face of heav'n
New day diffuſive glows at her approach;
Yet are theſe joys that Melancholy gives,
[23]By Contemplation taught, her ſiſter ſage,
Than all her witleſs revels happier far.
Then ever, beauteous Contemplation, hail!
From thee began, auſpicious maid, my ſong,
With thee ſhall end: for thou art fairer far
Than are the nymphs of Cirrha's moſſy grot;
To loftier rapture thou canſt wake the thought,
Than all the fabling Poet's boaſted pow'rs.
Hail, queen divine! whom, as tradition tells,
Once in his ev'ning-walk a Druid found
Far in a hollow glade of Mona's woods,
And piteous bore with hoſpitable hand
To the cloſe ſhelter of his oaken bow'r.
There ſoon the Sage admiring mark'd the dawn
Of ſolemn Muſing in thy penſive thought;
[24]For when a ſmiling babe, you lov'd to lie
Oft deeply liſt'ning to the rapid roar
Of wood-hung Meinai, ſtream of Druids old,
That lav'd his hallow'd haunt with daſhing wave.
FINIS.
Notes
†
Belinda. Vid. Rape of the Lock.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4092 The pleasures of melancholy A poem. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5B3A-E