THE PLEASURES OF CONTEMPLATION.

BY MISS WHATELY.

QUEEN of the halycon breast, and heavenward eye,
 Sweet Contemplation, with thy ray benign
 Light my lone passage thro' this vale of life,
 And raise the siege of Care! This silent hour
 To thee is sacred, when the star of Eve,
 Like Dian's Virgins trembling ere they bathe,
 Shoots o'er the Hesperian wave its quivering ray. 

All Nature joins to fill my labouring breast
 With high sensations: awful silence reigns
 Above, around; the sounding winds no more
 Wild thro' the fluctuating forest fly
 With gust impetuous; Zephyr scarcely breathes
 Upon the trembling foliage; flocks, and herds,
 Retir'd beneath the friendly shade repose
 Fann'd by Oblivion's wing. Ha! is not this,
 This the dread hour, as ancient fables tell,
 When flitting spirits from their prisons broke,
 By moon-light glide along the dusky vales,
 The solemn church-yard, or the dreary grove;
 Fond to revisit their once lov'd abodes,
 And view each friendly scene of past delight? 

Satyrs, and fawns, that in sequester'd woods,
 And deep-embowering shades delight to dwell;
 Quitting their caves, where in the reign of Day
 They slept in silence, o'er the daisied green
 Pursue their gambols, and with printless feet
 Chase the fleet shadows o'er the waving plains. 

Dryads, and Naiads, from each spring and grove,
 Trip blithsome o'er the lawns; or, near the side
 Of mossy fountains, sport in Cynthia's beams. 

The fairy elves, attendant on their queen,
 With light steps bound along the velvet mead,
 And leave the green impression of their dance
 In rings mysterious to the passing swain;
 While the pellucid glow-worm kindly lends
 Her silver lamp to light the festive scene. 

From yon majestic pile, in ruin great,
 Whose lofty towers once on approaching foes
 Look'd stern defiance, the sad bird of night
 In mournful accent to the moon complains:
 Those towers with venerable ivy crown'd,
 And mouldering into ruin, yield no more
 A safe retirement to the hostile bands;
 But there the lonely bat, that shuns the day,
 Dwells in dull solitude; and screaming thence
 Wheels the night raven shrill, with hideous note
 Portending death to the dejected swain. 

Each plant and flowret bath'd in evening dews,
 Exhale refreshing sweets: from the smooth lake,
 On whose still bosom sleeps the tall tree's shade,
 The moon's soft rays reflected mildly shine. 

Now towering Fancy takes her airy flight
 Without restraint, and leaves this earth behind;
 From pole to pole, from world to world she flies;
 Rocks, seas, nor skies, can interrupt her course. 

Is this what men, to thought estrang'd, miscall
 Despondence? this dull Melancholy's scene? 
To trace th' Eternal Cause thro all his works,
 Minutely and magnificently wise? 
Mark the gradations which thro' Nature's plan
 Join each to each, and form the vast design? 
And tho' day's glorious guide withdraws his beams
 Impartial, chearing other skies and shores;
 Rich intellect, that scorns corporeal bands,
 With more than mid-day radiance gilds the scene:
 The mind, now rescu'd from the cares of day,
 Roves unrestrain'd thro' the wide realms of space;
 Where (thought stupendous!) systems infinite,
 In regular confusion taught to move,
 Like gems bespangle yon etherial plains. 

Ye sons of Pleasure, and ye foes to Thought,
 Who search for bliss in the capacious bowl,
 And blindly woo Intemperance for Joy;
 Durst ye retire, hold converse with yourselves,
 And in the silent hours of darkness court
 Kind Contemplation with her peaceful train;
 How won'd the minutes dance on downy feet,
 And unperceiv'd the midnight taper waste,
 While intellectual pleasure reign'd supreme! 

Ye Muses, Graces, Virtues, heaven-born maids! 
Who love in peaceful solitude to dwell
 With meek-ey'd Innocence, and radiant Truth,
 And blushing Modesty; that frighted fly
 The dark intrigue, and midnight masquerade;
 What is this pleasure which inchants mankind? 
'Tis noise, 'tis toil, 'tis frenzy: like the cup
 Of Circe, fam'd of old, who tastes it finds
 Th' etherial spark divine to brute transform'd. 

And now, methinks, I hear the Libertine
 With supercilious leer cry, "Preach no more
" Your musty morals; hence, to desarts fly,
 "And in the gloom of solitary caves
" Austerely dwell: what's life, debarr'd from joy? 
 "Crown then the bowl; let Music lend her aid,
" And Beauty her's, to soothe my wayward cares. " 

Ah! little does he know the Nymph he styles
 A foe to pleasure; pleasure is not more
 His aim than her's; with him she joins to blame
 The hermit's gloom, and savage penances;
 Each social joy approves. Oh! without thee,
 Fair Friendship, Life were nothing; without thee,
 The page of Fancy would no longer charm,
 And Solitude disgust e'en pensive minds. 

Nought I condemn but that excess which clouds
 The mental faculties, to soothe the sense:
 Let Reason, Truth, and Virtue, guide thy steps,
 And every blessing Heaven bestows, be thine.