'A chain of gold ye sall not lack, But aye she loot the tears down fa' IL PENSEROSO HENCE, vain deluding Joys, The brood of Folly without father bred! How little you bestead 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 sunbeams, 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; Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, The sea nymphs, and their powers offended His daughter she; in Saturn's reign Come, but keep thy wonted state, With a sad leaden downward cast, And join with thee, calm Peace, and Quiet Aye round about Jove's altar sing: That in trim gardens takes his pleasure :— 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 |