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 removèd 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 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 MUSEUS 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 Tourneys, and of Trophies hung,
Of forests, and inchantments 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 kercheft 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 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 honied thigh,
That at her flow'ry 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!
some Spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unseen Genius of the wood.

Sent by

But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious Cloisters 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!

LADY, that, in the prime of earliest youth,
Wisely hast shunned the broad way and the green;
And, with those few, art eminently seen,
That labour up the Hill of Heavenly Truth;
The 'better part,' with MARY and with RUTH,
Chosen thou hast! and they that overween,
And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen,
No anger find in thee; but pity and ruth!
Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends

To fill thy odorous Lamp with deeds of light, And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore, be sure, Thou (when the Bridegroom, with his feastful friends, Passes to bliss, at the mid hour of night)

Hast gained thy entrance! Virgin wise and pure!

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT. AVENGE, O, LORD! thy slaughtered Saints; whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold:

Even them, who kept thy truth so pure of old; When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones. Forget not! In thy Book, record their groans!

Who were thy sheep; and, in their ancient fold, Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks! Their moans, The vales redoubled to the hills; and they,

To heaven! Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all th' Italian fields! where still doth sway The Triple-Tyrant: that, from these, may grow A hundredfold! who, having learnt thy Way, Early may fly the Babylonian Woe.