Here you will find the Long Poem The Pleasures of Melancholy of poet Thomas Warton Jr.
Mother of musings, Contemplation sage, Whose grotto stands upon the topmost rock Of Teneriffe; 'mid the tempestuous night, On which, in calmest meditation held, Thou hear'st with howling winds the beating rain And drifting hail descend; or if the skies Unclouded shine, and through the blue serene Pale Cynthia rolls her silver-axled car, Whence gazing steadfast on the spangled vault Raptured thou sitt'st, while murmurs indistinct Of distant billows soothe thy pensive ear With hoarse and hollow sounds; secure, self-blest, There oft thou listen´st to the wild uproar Of fleets encount´ring, that in whispers low Ascends the rocky summit, where thou dwell´st Remote from man, conversing with the spheres! O, lead me, queen sublime, to solemn glooms Congenial with my soul; to cheerless shades, To ruin´d seats, to twilight cells and bowers, Where thoughtful Melancholy loves to muse Her favorite midnight haunts. The laughing scenes Of purple Spring, where all the wanton train Of Smiles and Graces seem to lead the dance In sportive round, while from their hands they shower Ambrosial blooms and flowers, no longer charm; Tempe, no more I court thy balmy breeze, Adieu green vales! Ye broider´d meads, adieu! Beneath yon ruin'd abbey's moss-grown piles Oft let me sit, at twilight hour of eve, Where through some western window the pale moon Pours her long-levell'd rule of streaming light; While sullen sacred silence reigns around, Save the lone screech-owl's note, who builds his bower Amid the mould'ring caverns dark and damp, Or the calm breeze, that rustles in the leaves Of flaunting ivy, that with mantle green Invests some wasted tower. Or let me tread Its neighb'ring walk of pines, where mus'd of old The cloister'd brothers : thro' the gloomy void That far extends beneath their ample arch As on I pace, religious horror wraps My soul in dread repose. But when the world Is clad in Midnight's raven-colour'd robe, 'Mid hollow charnel let me watch the flame Of taper dim, shedding a livid glare O'er the wan heaps; while airy voices talk Along the glimm'ring walls; or ghostly shape At distance seen, invites with beck'ning hand My lonesome steps, thro' the far-winding vaults. Nor undelightful is the solemn noon Of night, when haply wakeful from my couch I start: lo, all is motionless around! Roars not the rushing wind; the sons of men And every beast in mute oblivion lie; All nature's hush'd in silence and in sleep. O then how fearful is it to reflect, That thro' the still globe's awful solitude, No being wakes but me! till stealing sleep My drooping temples bathes in opiate dews. Nor then let dreams, of wanton folly born My senses lead thro' flow'ry paths of joy; But let the sacred Genius of the night Such mystic visions send, as Spenser saw, When thro' bewild'ring Fancy's magic maze, To the fell house of Busyrane, he led Th' unshaken Britomart; or Milton knew, When in abstracted thought he first conceiv'd All heav'n in tumult, and the Seraphim Come tow'ring, arm'd in adamant and gold. Let others love soft Summer's evening smiles, As listening to the distant waterfall, They mark the blushes of the streaky west'; I choose the pale December's foggy glooms. Then, when the sullen shades of evening close, Where through the room a blindly- glimmering gleam They dying embers scatter, far remote From Mirth's mad shouts, that through th' illumined roof Resound with festive echo, let me sit, Blest with the lowly cricket's drowsy dirge. Then let my thought contemplative explore This fleeting state of things, the vain delights, The fruitless toils, that still our search elude, As through the wilderness of life we rove. This sober hour of silence will unmask False Folly's smile , that like the dazzling spells Of wily Comus cheat th' unweeting eye With blear illusion, and persuade to drink That charmed cup, which Reason's mintage fair Unmoulds, and stamps the monster on the man. Eager we taste, but in the luscious draught Forget the poisonous dregs that lurk beneath. Few know that elegance of soul refin'd, Whose soft sensation feels a quicker joy From Melancholy's scenes, than the dull pride Of tasteless splendour and magnificence Can e'er afford. Thus Eloise, whose mind Had languish'd to the pangs of melting love, More genuine transport found, as on some tomb Reclin'd, she watch'd the tapers of the dead; Or thro' the pillar'd aisles, amid pale shrines Of imag'd saints, and intermingled graves, Mus'd a veil'd votaress; than Flavia feels, As thro' the mazes of the festive ball, Proud of her conquering charms, and beauty's blaze, She floats amid the silken sons of dress, And shines the fairest of th' assembled fair.