ODE XXXII.

ON

MELANCHOLY,

TO

A FRIEND.

BY THE REV. WILLIAM MASON, M. A.

AH! cease this kind persuasive strain,
Which, when it flows from friendship's tongue,
However weak, however vain,

O'erpowers beyond the Siren's song:
Leave me, my friend, indulgent go,
And let me muse upon my woe.
Why lure me from these pale retreats ?
Why rob me of these pensive sweets?
Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye,
Can Painting's glowing hand, supply
A charm so suited to my mind,
As blows this hollow gust of wind,
As drops this little weeping rill

Soft-tinkling down the moss-grown hill,

Whilst through the west, where sinks the crimson Day, Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners

grey?

Say, from Affliction's various source
Do none but turbid waters flow?
And cannot fancy clear their course?
For Fancy is the friend of Woe.

Say, 'mid that grove, in love-lorn state,
When yon poor Ringdove mourns her mate,
Is all, that meets the shepherd's ear,
Inspir'd by anguish, and despair?

Ah no, fair Fancy rules the song:

She swells her throat she guides her tongue;
She bids the waving Aspin spray

Quiver in cadence to her lay;
She bids the fringed Osiers bow,
And rustle round the lake below,

To suit the tenor of her gurgling sighs,

And sooth her throbbing breast with solemn sympathies.

To thee, whose young and polish'd brow
The wrinkling hand of Sorrow spares ;
Whose cheeks, bestrew'd with roses, know
No channel for the tide of tears;

To thee yon Abbey, dank and lone,
Where Ivy chains each mouldʼring stone
That nods o'er many a Martyr's tomb,
May cast a formidable gloom.

Yet some there are, who, free from fear,
Could wander through the cloysters drear,
Could rove each desolated Isle,

Though midnight thunders shook the pile;

And dauntless view, or seem to view,
(As faintly flash the lightnings blue)

Thin shiv'ring Ghosts from yawning charnels throng,
And glance with silent sweep the shaggy vaults along.

But such terrific charms as these,
I ask not yet: My sober mind
The fainter forms of Sadness please;
My sorrows are of softer kind.
Through this still valley let me stray
Wrapt in some strain of pensive GRAY:
Whose lofty Genius bears along

The conscious dignity of Song;

And, scorning from the sacred store
To waste a note on Pride or Power,
Roves, when the glimmering twilight glooms,
And warbles 'mid the rustic tombs:
He too perchance (for well I know,

His heart would melt with friendly woe)

He too perchance, when these poor limbs are laid, Will heave one tuneful sigh, and sooth my hov'ring

shade.

ODE XXXIII.

MELPOMENE.

QUEEN of the human heart! at whose command
The swelling tides of mighty Passions rise,
Melpomene, support my venturous hand,
And aid thy suppliant in his bold emprise.
From the gay scenes of pride

Do thou his footsteps guide

To nature's aweful courts, where nurst of yore, Young Shakspere, Fancy's child, was taught his various lore.

So may his favour'd eye explore the source,
To few reveal'd, whence human sorrows charm:
So may his numbers, with pathetic force,
Bid Terror shake us, or Compassion warm,
As different strains controul

The movements of the soul,

Adjust its passions, harmonize its tone,
To feel for others' woe, or nobly bear its own.

Deep in the covert of a shadowy grove,

Mid broken rocks where dashing currents play;

Dear to the pensive pleasures, dear to love,

And Damon's Muse, that breathes her melting lay, This ardent prayer was made.

When lo! the secret shade,

As conscious of some heavenly presence, shookStrength, firmness, reason, all-my astonish'd soul forsook.

Ah! whither Goddess! whither am I borne ?
To what wild region's necromantic shore?
These panics whence? and why my bosom torn
With sudden terrors never felt before?

Darkness inwraps me round,

While from the vast profound

Emerging spectres dreadful shapes assume,
And gleaming on my sight, add horror to the gloom.

Ha! what is he whose fierce indignant eye,
Denouncing vengeance, kindles into flame?
Whose boisterous fury blows a storm so high,
As with his thunder shakes his labouring frame.
What can such rage provoke ?

His words their passage choak:

His eager steps, nor time nor truce allow,

And dreadful dangers wait the menace of his brow.

Protect me, Goddess! whence that fearful shriek
Of consternation? as grim Death had laid

His icy fingers on some guilty cheek,

And all the powers of manhood shrunk dismay'd: