ODE TO MELANCHOLY.

BY MISS CARTER.

COME, Melancholy! silent power,
 Companion of my lonely hour,
 To sober thought confin'd;
 Thou sweetly sad ideal guest,
 In all thy soothing charms confest,
 Indulge my pensive mind. 

No longer wildly hurried thro'
 The tides of mirth, that ebb and flow
 In folly's noisy stream:
 I from the busy crowd retire,
 To court the objects that inspire
 Thy philosophic dream. 

Thro' yon dark grove of mournful yews
 With solitary steps I muse,
 By thy direction led;
 Here, cold to pleasure's tempting forms,
 Consociate with my sister-worms,
 And mingle with the dead. 

Ye midnight horrors! awful gloom! 
Ye silent regions of the tomb! 
My future peaceful bed:
 Here shall my weary eyes be clos'd,
 And every sorrow lie repos'd
 In death's refreshing shade. 

Ye pale inhabitants of night,
 Before my intellectual sight
 In solemn pomp ascend:
 O tell how trifling now appears
 The train of idle hopes and fears
 That varying life attend! 

Ye faithless idols of our sense,
 Here own how vain your fond pretence,
 Ye empty names of joy! 
Your transient forms like shadows pass,
 Frail offspring of the magic glass,
 Before the mental eye. 

The dazzling colours, falsely bright,
 Attract the gazing vulgar sight
 With superficial state:
 Thro' Reason's clearer optics view'd,
 How stript of all it's pomp, how rude
 Appears the painted cheat. 

Can wild Ambition's tyrant power,
 Or ill-got Wealth's superfluous store,
 The dread of death controul? 
Can Pleasure's more bewitching charms
 Avert or soothe the dire alarms
 That shake the parting soul? 

Religion! e'er the hand of Fate
 Shall make Reflexion plead too late,
 My erring senses teach,
 Amidst the flattering hopes of youth,
 To meditate the solemn truth,
 These awful relics preach. 

Thy penetrating beams disperse
 The mist of error, whence our fears
 Derive their fatal spring:
 'Tis thine the trembling heart to warm,
 And soften to an angel form
 The pale terrific king. 

When sunk by guilt in sad despair,
 Repentance breathes her humble prayer,
 And owns thy threatnings just:
 Thy voice the shuddering suppliant chears,
 With Mercy calms her torturing fears,
 And lifts her from the dust. 

Sublim'd by thee, the soul aspires
 Beyond the range of low desires,
 In nobler views elate:
 Unmov'd her destin'd change surveys,
 And, arm'd by faith, intrepid pays
 The universal debt. 

In Death's soft slumber lull'd to rest,
 She sleeps, by smiling visions blest,
 That gently whisper Peace:
 Till the last morn's fair opening ray
 Unfolds the bright eternal day
 Of active life and bliss.