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
.