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Ir aught can raise the drooping heart

Above the world's delight and folly, And all sublimer thoughts impart,

'Tis heav'nly, pensive melancholy

How glorious 'tis, at twilight hour,
To sit and watch from yonder tow'r

The silver moon arise !
The mind expanding, bears her wings,
Above all sublunary things,

And mingles with the skies.

Then let me seek the solemn scene,
When all is silent and serene

Beneath the starry pole ;
When pleasure's fev'rish dreams are o'er,
And busy cares disturb no more

The contemplative soul.

Or slowly pace, with musing tread,
The dreary mansions of the dead,

Where senseless marbles weep;
And saints that former ages blest,
Within their earthly caverns rest

In everlasting sleep.

There melancholy loves to dwell,
And listen to the passing bell,

That speaks our mortal doom ;
With pensive form, and haggard stare,
She bends, the picture of despair,

O'er Beauty's early tomb.

She, with her sister madness, oft
On some high rock will sit aloft,

That foaming billows sweep,
And while all nature feels dismay,
With fix’d, unalter'd eye survey

The tempest, and the deep.

But when in some secluded cell,
She tunes her wild, pathetic shell,

Soft Zephyrs breathe around;
The Shepherd's pipe upon the hill
Is hush'd—the vocal woods are still,

To hear the mournful sound !

Hark! music strikes the list’ning ear, In notes more thrilling, plaintive, clear,

Than e'er to man were given; Sweet as the sounds that angels sing When loud applauding seraphs bring

A chosen saint to heav'n.

'Tis Mona's bard—with magic sweep, —
Who rais'd the spirits of the deep

In Fingal's dreary cave;
High on a mountain's tow'ring spire,
He wakes the music of his Lyre,

O'er many a warrior's grave.

When wand'ring ghosts, as Legends tell,
Forsook the dismal caves of hell,

To haunt the midnight gloom;
And while the distant thunder rollid,
Would oft to mortal ears unfold

The secrets of the tomb !

Hail holy shade! whose harp divine,
O'er druid's altar, hero's shrine

Awoke in dying falls—
No more thine airy music floats
In solemn, sad, and swelling notes

Thro' Mona's desart walls.-

Hail, Melancholy, Pow'r sublime !
Which naught but all-consuming time

Shall vanquish, or destroy!
When earth shall melt, and sea, and skies,
0! may thy troubled Spirit rise

To everlasting joy.

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The Sun with mild declining ray,
Proclaims the hour of parting day,

And thro' the dusky plain
The swain his ev'ning carol sings,
And night once more on sable wings,

Resumes her silent reign

The lover mourns beneath the shade,
For broken vows, and hopes betray'd,

And friendship's cold return:
And where departed merit sleeps,
Affection her lone vigil keeps,

And bathes the laurellid urn.

Now, while the thoughtless and the gay,
Life's fleeting moments pass away

In festive hall, or bow'r;
Let me, while nightly dews descend,
In silent meditation spend

The solitary hour.

Glory to thee, in holy hymn,
Who sitt'st amid the cherubim,

High Lord of heav'n alone !
My God, my Father, and my Friend!
With humble gratitude I bend

Before thine awful throne !

If e'er in deed, in word, or thought,
I've been by passion blindly taught

From virtue's path to steer,
O let me to thy throne repair
With humble penitence and pray’r;

Nor thou refuse to hear.


my heart to wisdom's rule, And try me in affliction's school,

And teach my erring mind
To know that pleasure, glitt'ring toy,
Yields but a transitory joy,

And leaves a sting behind.

Tho' light'nings flash, and tempests low'r, He shall outlive the dreadful hour

Who stands in worth securePure as the current of the rills, Firm as the everlasting hills,

Shall virtue's self endure.

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