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ODE TO MELANCHOLY:
By Mr. OGILVIE
AIL, queen of thought fublime! popitious pow'r,
Who o'er th' unbounded waste art joy'd to roam, Led by the moon, when at the midnight hour
Her pale rays tremble thro' the dusky gloom, O bear me, goddess, to thy peaceful feat !
, Whether to Hecla's cloud-wrapt brow convey'd, Or lodg’d where mountains screen thy deep retreat,
Or wand'ring wild thro' Chili's boundless fhade.
Say, rove thy steps o'er Lybia's naked waste?
Or feek foine diftant folitary shore ?
Dollfit, and hear the folemn thunder roar ?
Fix'd on some hanging rock's projected brow,
Hear'ít thou low murmurs from the distant dome ? Or stray thy feet where pale dejected Woe
Pours her long wail from fome lamented tomb ?
Harkyon deepecho frikes the erembling eatshi:
See night's dun curtain wraps the dark some pole! O'er heaven's blue arch yon rolling worlds appear,
And rouse to folemn thought th' afpiring foul. O lead my stops beneath the moon's dim ray,
Where Tadmor ftands all desert and alone! While from her time-fhook tow'rs the bird of prey,
Sounds thro', the night her long resounding moan Or bear me far to yon dark difinal plain,
Where fell-eyed rygers al athirst for blood, ;: Howl coche desart ; while the horrid train
Roams o'er the wild where once great Babel food;
That queen of nations ! whose superior call
Rous'd the broad East, and bid her arms destroy ! When warm'd to mirth, let judgment mark her fall,
And deep reflection dath the lip of joy.
Short is Ambition's
deceitful dream; Though'wreaths of blooming laurel bind her brow; Calm thought difpels the visionary scheme,
And Time's cold breath dissolves the withering bough Slow as fome miner saps th' aspiring tow'r,
When working secret with destructive aim,
But works the fall of empire, pomp; and name.
) Then let thy pencil mark the traits of man; Full in the draught be keen-eyed Hope portray'a :
bir po Let fluie’ring Cupids crowd the growing plan :
9 Then give one touch, and dash it deep with Thade. Bepeath the plume' that flames with glancing rays
Be Care's deep engines on the foul impressd;c Beneath the helniet's keen refulgent blaze and 135T
Let Grief Gt pining in the canker'd brealtoo?:0 Let Love's gay sons, a smiling train, 'appeare'ns!!
With Beauty piered-yet heedless of the dare ; While, closely couch'd, pale fick’ning Eavy ncat
Whets her fell fting, and points it at the heart." Perch'd like a raven on fame blasted yew,
Let Guilt revolve the thought-diftracting in; Scar'd-while her eyes survey th'ethereal blue,
Left heaven's (trong lightning burll the dark within. Then paint impending o'er the maddening deep
That rock where heart-truck Sappho, sainly brave, Stood firm of foulthen from the dizzy steep
Impetuous sprung, and dalh'd the boiling waves Here wrapt in Audious thought let Fancy rove, Still
prompt to mark Suspicion's secret snare ; To see where Anguish nips the bloom of Love, Or trace proud Grandeur to the domes of Care.
Should e'er Ambition's tow’ring hopes inflame,
Let judging Reafon draw the veil álide; Or, fir'd with envy at some mighty name,
Read.0'er the monument that tells-He died.
t are the ensigns of imperial sway
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When melış the eye o'er Virtue's mournful bier Not wealth, but piły, swells the bursting groan:
Not pow's,, but whispring Nature, prompts the tear. Say, gentle mourner, in yon mouldy vault,
Where the worm fattens on some scepter'd brow, Beneath that roof with sculptur'd marble fraught,
Why sleeps unmou'd the breathless duft below? Sleeps it more sweetly than the simple swain,
Beneath fome molfy turf that rests his head ; Where the lone widow tells the night her pain,
And éve with dewy tears embalms the dead ?
The lily, screen'd from ev'ry ruder gale,
Courts not the cultur'd spot where roses fpring :
The bufts of grandeur and the pomp of pow'r,
Can these bid Sorrow's gushing tears fublide ? Can these avail in that tremendous hour,
When Death's cold hand congeals the purple ride ?
Ah no! the mighty names are heard no more:
Pride's thought fublime, and Beauty's kindling bloom, Serve but to sport one flying moment o'er,
And swell with pompous verfe ch' escutcheon'd comb For me-may. Pallion ne'er my foul invade,
Nor be the whims of tow'ring Phrenzy giv'n ; Hins Let Wealth ne'er court me from the peaceful shade,
Where Contemplation wings the foul to Heaven!
Oh guard me safe from Joy's enticing snare!
With each extreme that Pleasure tries to hide, The poison'd breath of flow-consuming Care,
The noise of Folly, and the dreams of Pride. Bit oft, when midnight's fadly folemn knell
Sounds long and distant froin the sky-topt tow'r, Calin let me fit in Prosper's lonely cell*,
Or walk with Milton thro' the dark obscure.
Thus, when the transient dream of life is fled,
May some fad friend recal the former years ; Then, stretch'd in Glence o'er my, dusty bed,
Pour the warm gush of fympathetic tears !
* See Shakespeare's Tempeft,