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 drousy 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 Th' 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 buskin'd 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 own'd the virtuous ring and glass,

And of the wond'rous 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 car.

Thus night oft see me in thy pale career,

Till civil-suited morn appear;

Not trick'd and frounc'd as she was wont

With the Attic boy to hunt,

But kerchief'd in a comely cloud,

While rocking winds are piping loud;

Or usher'd 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 heaved stroke
Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd 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 flowery work doth sing,

And the waters murmuring,

With such concert as they keep,

Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep;

And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream

Of lively portraiture display'd,

Softly on my eye-lids laid.

And as I wake, sweet music breathe

Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unseen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale,
And love the high-embowed 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-voic'd quire below,

In service high and anthems clear,

As may with sweetness, through mine ear,

Dissolve me into ecstasies,

And bring all Heav'n 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 ev'ry star that Heav'n doth shew,
And ev'ry 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.