Light my lone passage thro’ this vale of life,
And raise the seige of Care! This silent hour
To thee is sacred, when the star of eve,
Like Dian’s virgins trembling ere they bathe,
Shoots o’er the Hesperian wave its quivering ray.
All nature joins to fill my labouring breast
With high sensations: aweful silence reigns
1Above, around; the sounding winds no more
Wild thro’ the fluctuating forest fly
With gust impetuous; Zephyr scarcely breathes
Upon the trembling foliage; flocks and herds
Retir’d beneath the friendly shade repose,
Fann’d by oblivion’s wing. Ha! is not this,
This the dread hour, as ancient fables tell,
When flitting spirits, from their prisons broke,
By moonlight glide along the dusky vales,
The solemn churchyard, or the dreary grove;
Fond to revisit their once-Iov’d abodes,
And view each friendly scene of past delight!
Satyrs and fawns, that in sequester’d woods
And deep-embowering shades delight to dwell,
Quitting their caves, where in the reign of day
They slept in silence, o’er the daisied green
Pursue their gambols, and with printless feet
Chase the fleet shadows o’er the waving plains.
Dryads, and Naiads, from each spring and grove,
Trip blithsome o’er the lawns; or, near the side
Of mossy fountains, sport in Cynthia’s beams.
The fairy elves, attendant on their queen,
With light steps bound along the velvet mead,
And leave the green impression of their dance
In rings mysterious to the passing swain;
While the pellucid glow-worm kindly lends
Her silver lamp to light the festive scene.
From you majestic pile, in ruin great,
Whose lofty towers once on approaching foes
Look’d stern defiance, the sad bird of night,
In mournful accent, to the moon complains:
Those lofty towers with venerable ivy crown’d,
And mouldering into ruin, yield no more
A safe retirement to the hostile bands;
But there the lonely bat, that shuns the day,
Dwells in dull solitude; and screaming thence
Wheels the night raven shrill, with hideous note
Portending death to the dejected swain.
Each plant and flow’ret bath’d in evening dews,
Exhale refreshing sweets; from the smooth lake,
On whose still bosom sleeps the tall tree’s shade,
The moon’s soft rays reflected mildly shine.
Now towering Fancy takes her early flight
Without restraint, and leaves this earth behind;
From pole to pole, from world to world she flies;
Rocks, seas, nor skies, can interrupt her course.
Is this what men, to thought estrang’d, miscall
Despondence? this dull Melancholy’s scene?
To trace the Eternal Cause thro’ all his works,
Minutely and magnificently wise?
Mark the gradations which thro’ Nature’s plan
Join each to each, and form the vast design?
And tho’ day’s glorious guide withdraws his beams
Impartial, cheering other skies and shores,
Rich intellect, that scorns corporeal bands,
With more than mid-day radiance gilds the scene:
The mind, now rescu’d from the cares of day,
Roves unrestrain’d thro’ the wide realms of space,
Where (thought stupendous!) systems infinite,
In regular confusion taught to move,
Like gems bespangle yon etherial plain!
Ye sons of pleasure, and ye foes to thought,
Who search for bliss in the capacious bowl,
And blindly woo intemperance for joy;
Durst ye retire, hold converse with yourselves,
And in the silent hours of darkness court
Kind Contemplation with her peaceful train;
How would the minutes dance on downy feet,
And unperceiv’d the midnight taper waste,
While intellectual pleasure reign’d supreme!
Ye Muses, Graces, Virtues, heaven-born maids!
Who love in peaceful solitude to dwell
With meek-ey’d Innocence, and radiant Truth,
And blushing Modesty; that frighted fly
The dark intrigue, and midnight masquerade;
What is this pleasure which enchants mankind?
Tis noise, ’tis toil, ’tis frenzy; like the cup
Of Circe, fam’d of old; who tastes it finds
Th’ etherial spark divine to brute transform’d
And now, methinks, I hear the libertine
With superCilious leer cry, “Preach no more
Your musty morals; hence, to deserts fly,
And in the gloom of solitary caves
Austerely dwell; what’s life, debarr’d from joy?
Crown, then, the bowl; let Music lend her aid,
And Beauty her’s, to soothe my wayward cares.”
Ah! little does he know the nymph he styles
A foe to pleasure; pleasure is not more
His aim than her’s; with him she joins to blame
The hermit’s gloom, and savage penances;
Each social joy approves. oh! without thee,
Fair Friendship, life were nothing; without thee,
The page of fancy would no longer charm,
And solitude disgust e’en pensive minds.
Nought I condemn, but that excess which clouds
The mental faculties, to soothe the sense;
Let Reason, Truth, and Virtue guide thy steps,
And every blessing Heav’n bestows, be thine!
(Mary Whateley)
More Poetry from Mary Whateley:
Mary Whateley Poems based on Topics: Pleasure, Thought & Thinking, Innocence, Fairy, Cry, Life, Mind, Sadness, Charm, Past, MankindReaders Who Like This Poem Also Like:
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