IL PENSEROSO. HENCE, vain deluding joys, The brood of Folly, without father bred, Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys! And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sun-beams; The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. ; The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended. His daughter she; in Saturn's reign, 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 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 accustom'd 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 bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far off curfew sound, Over some wide-water'd 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, But, O sad Virgin, that thy power That own'd the virtuous ring and glass; Not trick'd and flounced, as she was wont, But kerchief'd in a comely cloud, While rocking winds are piping loud; When the gust had blown his fill, |