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Or call up

him that left half told

The ftory of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarfife,
And who had Canace to wife,

That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wond'rous horfe of brafs,
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if ought elfe great bards befide
In fage and folemn tunes have fung,
Of tourneys and of trophies hung,
Of forefts, and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear,
Thus, night, oft fee me in thy pale career,
Till civil-fuited morn appear,

Not trickt and froun&t as fhe was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,

But, kercheft in a comely cloud,

While rocking winds are piping loud,

Or, usher'd with a shower still,
When the guft hath blown its fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And, when the fun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And fhadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak,
Where the rude ax, with heaved stroke,
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.

There

There, in clofe covert, by fome brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,

Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee, with honey'd thigh,
That at her flow'ry work doth fing,
And the waters murmuring,
With fuch confort as they keep,
Entice the dewy feather'd fleep;
And let fome ftrange myfterious dream
Wave at his wings, in aery ftream
Of lively portraiture difplay'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid:

And, as I wake, fweet mufic breathe
Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by fome Spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unfeen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the ftudious cloyfters pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antic pillars maffy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Cafting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full voic'd quire below,
In fervice high, and anthems clear,

As may, with fweetness, through mine ear,
Diffolve me into extafies,

And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.

And may, at laft, my weary age

Find out the peaceful hermitage,

The

The hairy grown and moffy cell,

Of

every

Where I may fit, and rightly spell
ftar that Heaven doth fhew,
And every herb that fips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To fomething like prophetic strain.
Thefe pleasures, Melancholy give,
And I with thee will choose to live.

L'ALLEGRO.

L'ALLEGRO.

ENCE, loathed Melancholy,

HE

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born,

In Stygian cave forlorn,

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and fights unholy,

Find out fome uncouth cell,

Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night raven fings;

There, under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian defert ever dwell.
But come, thou goddess fair and free,
In Heav'n yclep'd Euphrofine,
And, by men, heart-eafing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth,
With two fifter graces more,
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;
Or whether (as fome fages fing)

The frolic wind that breathes the spring,
Zephyr with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a maying;
There, on beds of violets blue,

And fresh blown roses wash'd in dew,
Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.

Hafte

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jeft, and youthful Jollity,

Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,

And love to live in dimple fleek;
Sport, that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter, holding both his fides.
Come, and trip it as you go,

On the light fantastic toe;

And, in thy right hand, lead with thee
The mountain nymph, fweet Liberty;
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,

To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free;
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And, finging, ftartle the dull night
From his watch-tow'r in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rife;
Then to come, in fpite of forrow,
And, at my window, bid good morrow,
Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine:

While the cock, with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the ftack, or barn-door,
Stoutly ftruts his dames before:
Oft lift'ning how the hounds and horn
Chearly roufe the flumb'ring morn,

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