THE
PLEASURES
of
MELANCHOLY
.
Written
in
the
Year
1745.
By
Mr.
THOMAS
WARTON
.
MOTHER
of
musings
,
Contemplation
sage
,
Whose
grotto
stands
upon
the
topmost
rock
Of
Teneriff
:
'mid
the
tempestuous
night
,
On
which
,
in
calmest
meditation
held
,
Thou
hear'st
with
howling
winds
the
beating
rain
And
drifting
hail
descend
;
or
if
the
skies
Unclouded
shine
,
and
thro'
the
blue
serene
Pale
Cynthia
rolls
her
silver-axled
car
,
Whence
gazing
stedfast
on
the
spangled
vault
Raptur'd
thou
sit'st
,
while
murmurs
indistinct
Of
distant
billows
sooth
thy
pensive
ear
With
hoarse
and
hollow
sounds
;
secure
,
self-blest
,
There
oft
thou
listen'st
to
the
wild
uproar
Of
fleets
encount'ring
,
that
in
whispers
low
Ascends
the
rocky
summit
,
where
thou
dwell'st
Remote
from
man
,
conversing
with
the
spheres
!
O
lead
me
,
queen
sublime
,
to
solemn
glooms
Congenial
with
my
soul
;
to
cheerless
shades
,
To
ruin'd
seats
,
of
twilight
cells
and
bow'rs
,
Where
thoughtful
Melancholy
loves
to
muse
,
Her
fav'rite
midnight
haunts
.
The
laughing
scenes
Of
purple
Spring
,
where
all
the
wanton
train
Of
Smiles
and
Graces
seem
to
lead
the
dance
In
sportive
round
,
while
from
their
hands
they
show'r
Ambrosial
blooms
and
flow'rs
,
no
longer
charm
;
Tempe
,
no
more
I
court
thy
balmy
breeze
,
Adieu
green
vales
!
ye
broider'd
meads
,
adieu
!
Beneath
yon
ruin'd
abbey's
moss-grown
piles
Oft
let
me
sit
,
at
twilight
hour
of
eve
,
Where
thro'
some
western
window
the
pale
moon
Pours
her
long-levell'd
rule
of
streaming
light
;
While
sullen
sacred
silence
reigns
around
,
Save
the
lone
screech-owl's
note
,
who
builds
his
bow'r
Amid
the
mould'ring
caverns
dark
and
damp
,
Or
the
calm
breeze
,
that
rustles
in
the
leaves
Of
flaunting
ivy
,
that
with
mantle
green
Invests
some
wasted
tow'r
.
Or
let
me
tread
In
neighb'ring
walk
of
pines
,
where
mus'd
of
old
The
cloyster'd
brother
:
thro'
the
gloomy
void
That
far
extends
beneath
their
ample
arch
As
on
I
pace
,
religious
horror
wraps
My
soul
in
dread
repose
.
But
when
the
world
Is
clad
in
Midnight's
raven-colour'd
robe
,
'
Mid
hollow
charnels
let
me
watch
the
flame
Of
taper
dim
,
shedding
a
livid
glare
O'er
the
wan
heaps
;
while
airy
voices
talk
Along
the
glimm'ring
walls
:
or
ghostly
shape
At
distance
seen
,
invites
with
beck'ning
hand
My
lonesome
steps
,
thro'
the
far-winding
vaults
.
Nor
undelightful
is
the
solemn
noon
Of
night
,
when
haply
wakeful
from
my
couch
I
start
:
lo
,
all
is
motionless
around
!
Roars
not
the
rushing
wind
;
the
sons
of
men
And
every
beast
in
mute
oblivion
lie
;
All
nature's
hush'd
in
silence
and
in
sleep
.
O
then
how
fearful
is
it
to
reflect
,
That
thro'
the
still
globe's
aweful
solitude
,
No
being
wakes
but
me
!
'till
stealing
sleep
My
drooping
temples
bathes
in
opiate
dews
.
Nor
then
let
dreams
,
of
wanton
folly
born
,
My
senses
lead
thro'
flowery
paths
of
joy
;
But
let
the
sacred
Genius
of
the
night
Such
mystic
visions
send
,
as
Spenser
saw
,
When
thro'
bewild'ring
Fancy's
magic
maze
,
To
the
fell
house
of
Busyrane
,
he
led
Th'
unshaken
Britomart
;
or
Milton
knew
,
When
in
abstracted
thought
he
first
conceiv'd
All
heav'n
in
tumult
,
and
the
Seraphim
Come
tow'ring
,
arm'd
in
adamant
and
gold
.
Let
others
love
soft
summer's
ev'ning
smiles
,
As
,
list'ning
to
the
distant
water-fall
,
They
mark
the
blushes
of
the
streaky
west
;
I
choose
the
pale
December's
foggy
glooms
.
Then
,
when
the
sullen
shades
of
ev'ning
close
,
Where
thro'
the
room
a
blindly-glimm'ring
gleam
The
dying
embers
scatter
,
far
remote
From
Mirth's
mad
shouts
,
that
thro'
th'
illumin'd
roof
Resound
with
festive
echo
,
let
me
sit
,
Blest
with
the
lowly
cricket's
drowsy
dirge
.
Then
let
my
thought
contemplative
explore
This
fleeting
state
of
things
,
the
vain
delights
,
The
fruitless
toils
,
that
still
our
search
elude
,
As
thro'
the
wilderness
of
life
we
rove
.
This
sober
hour
of
silence
will
unmask
False
Folly's
smiles
,
that
like
the
dazzling
spells
Of
wily
Comus
cheat
th'
unweeting
eye
With
blear
illusion
,
and
persuade
to
drink
That
charmed
cup
,
which
Reason's
mintage
fair
Unmoulds
,
and
stamps
the
monster
on
the
man
.
Eager
we
taste
,
but
in
the
luscious
draught
Forget
the
pois'nous
dregs
that
lurk
beneath
.
Few
know
that
elegance
of
soul
refin'd
,
Whose
soft
sensation
feels
a
quicker
joy
From
Melancholy's
scenes
,
than
the
dull
pride
Of
tasteless
splendor
and
magnificence
Can
e'er
afford
.
Thus
Eloise
,
whose
mind
Had
languish'd
to
the
pangs
of
melting
love
,
More
genuine
transport
found
,
as
on
some
tomb
Reclin'd
,
she
watch'd
the
tapers
of
the
dead
;
Or
thro'
the
pillar'd
iles
,
amid
pale
shrines
Of
imag'd
saints
,
and
intermingled
graves
,
Mus'd
a
veil'd
votaress
:
than
Flavia
feels
,
As
thro'
the
mazes
of
the
festive
ball
,
Proud
of
her
conquering
charms
,
and
beauty's
blaze
,
She
floats
amid
the
silken
sons
of
dress
,
And
shines
the
fairest
of
th'
assembled
fair
.
When
azure
noon-tide
cheers
the
daedal
globe
,
And
the
blest
regent
of
the
golden
day
Rejoices
in
his
bright
meridian
bow'r
,
How
oft
my
wishes
ask
the
night's
return
,
That
best
befriends
the
melancholy
mind
!
Hail
,
sacred
Night
!
thou
too
shalt
share
my
song
!
Sister
of
Ebon-scepter'd
Hecat
,
hail
!
Whether
in
congregated
clouds
thou
wrap'st
Thy
viewless
chariot
,
or
with
silver
crown
Thy
beaming
head
encirclest
,
ever
hail
!
What
tho'
beneath
thy
gloom
the
forceress-train
,
Far
in
obscured
haunt
of
Lapland-moors
,
With
rhymes
uncouth
the
bloody
cauldron
bless
;
Tho'
Murder
wan
,
beneath
thy
shrouding
shade
Summons
her
slow-ey'd
vot'ries
to
devise
Of
secret
slaughter
,
while
by
one
blue
lamp
In
hideous
conf'rence
sits
the
listening
band
,
And
start
at
each
low
wind
,
or
wakeful
sound
:
What
tho'
thy
stay
the
pilgrim
curseth
oft
,
As
all
benighted
in
Arabian
wastes
He
hears
the
wilderness
around
him
howl
With
roaming
monsters
,
while
on
his
hoar
head
The
black-descending
tempest
ceaseless
beats
;
Yet
more
delightful
to
my
pensive
mind
Is
thy
return
,
than
bloomy
morn's
approach
,
Ev'n
then
,
in
youthful
prime
of
opening
May
,
When
from
the
portals
of
the
saffron
east
She
sheds
fresh
roses
,
and
ambrosial
dews
.
Yet
not
ungrateful
is
the
morn's
approach
,
When
dropping
wet
she
comes
,
and
clad
in
clouds
,
While
thro'
the
damp
air
scowls
the
louring
south
,
Blackening
the
landscape's
face
,
that
grove
and
hill
In
formless
vapours
undistinguish'd
swim
:
Th'
afflicted
songsters
of
the
sadden'd
groves
Hail
not
the
sullen
gloom
;
the
waving
elms
That
hoar
thro'
time
,
and
rang'd
in
thick
array
,
Enclose
with
stately
row
some
rural
hall
,
Are
mute
,
nor
echo
with
the
clamors
hoarse
Of
rooks
rejoicing
on
their
airy
boughs
;
While
to
the
shed
the
dripping
poultry
crowd
,
A
mournful
train
;
secure
the
village-hind
Hangs
o'er
the
crackling
blaze
,
nor
tempts
the
storm
;
Fix'd
in
th'
unfinish'd
furrow
rests
the
plough
:
Rings
not
the
high
wood
with
enliv'ning
shouts
Of
early
hunter
:
all
is
silence
drear
;
And
deepest
sadness
wraps
the
face
of
things
.
Thro'
POPE'S
soft
song
tho'
all
the
Graces
breathe
,
And
happiest
art
adorn
his
Attic
page
;
Yet
does
my
mind
with
sweeter
transport
glow
,
As
at
the
root
of
mossy
trunk
reclin'd
,
In
magic
SPENSER'S
wildly-warbled
song
I
see
deserted
Una
wander
wide
Thro'
wasteful
solitudes
,
and
lurid
heaths
Weary
,
forlorn
;
than
when
the
Belinda
.
See
Rape
of
the
Lock
.
fated
fair
,
Upon
the
bosom
bright
of
silver
Thames
,
Launches
in
all
the
lustre
of
brocade
,
Amid
the
splendors
of
the
laughing
Sun
.
The
gay
description
palls
upon
the
sense
,
And
coldly
strikes
the
mind
with
feeble
bliss
.
Ye
Youths
of
Albion's
beauty-blooming
isle
,
Whose
brows
have
worn
the
wreath
of
luckless
love
,
Is
there
a
pleasure
like
the
pensive
mood
,
Whose
magic
wont
to
sooth
your
soften'd
souls
?
O
tell
how
rapturous
the
joy
,
to
melt
To
Melody's
assuasive
voice
;
to
bend
Th'
uncertain
step
along
the
midnight
mead
,
And
pour
your
sorrows
to
the
pitying
moon
,
By
many
a
slow
trill
from
the
bird
of
woe
Oft
interrupted
;
in
embowering
woods
By
darksome
brook
to
muse
,
and
there
forget
The
solemn
dulness
of
the
tedious
world
,
While
Fancy
grasps
the
visionary
fair
:
And
now
no
more
th'
abstracted
ear
attends
The
water's
murm'ring
lapse
,
th'
entranced
eye
Pierces
no
longer
thro'
th'
extended
rows
Of
thick-rang'd
trees
;
'till
haply
from
the
depth
The
woodman's
stroke
,
or
distant-tinkling
team
,
Or
heifer
rustling
thro'
the
brake
alarms
Th'
illuded
sense
,
and
mars
the
golden
dream
.
These
are
delights
that
absence
drear
has
made
Familiar
to
my
soul
,
e'er
since
the
form
Of
young
Sapphira
,
beauteous
as
the
Spring
,
When
from
her
vi'let-woven
couch
awak'd
By
frolic
Zephyr's
hand
,
her
tender
cheek
Graceful
she
lifts
,
and
blushing
from
her
bow'r
,
Issues
to
cloath
in
gladsome-glist'ring
green
The
genial
globe
,
first
met
my
dazzled
sight
:
These
are
delights
unknown
to
minds
profane
,
And
which
alone
the
pensive
soul
can
taste
.
The
taper'd
choir
,
at
the
late
hour
of
pray'r
,
Oft
let
me
tread
,
while
to
th'
according
voice
The
many-sounding
organ
peals
on
high
,
The
clear
slow-dittyed
chaunt
,
or
varied
hymn
,
'Till
all
my
soul
is
bath'd
in
ecstasies
,
And
lap'd
in
Paradise
.
Or
let
me
sit
Far
in
sequester'd
iles
of
the
deep
dome
,
There
lonesome
listen
to
the
sacred
sounds
,
Which
,
as
they
lengthen
thro'
the
Gothic
vaults
,
In
hollow
murmurs
reach
my
ravish'd
ear
.
Nor
when
the
lamps
expiring
yield
to
night
,
And
solitude
returns
,
would
I
forsake
The
solemn
mansion
,
but
attentive
hear
The
due
clock
swinging
slow
with
sweepy
sway
,
Measuring
Time's
flight
with
momentary
sound
.
Nor
let
me
fail
to
cultivate
my
mind
With
the
soft
thrillings
of
the
tragic
Muse
,
Divine
Melpomene
,
sweet
Pity's
nurse
,
Queen
of
the
stately
step
,
and
flowing
pall
.
Now
let
Monimia
mourn
with
streaming
eyes
Her
joys
incestuous
,
and
polluted
love
:
Now
let
soft
Juliet
in
the
gaping
tomb
Print
the
last
kiss
on
her
true
Romeo's
lips
,
His
lips
yet
reeking
from
the
dreadly
draught
.
Or
Jaffeir
kneel
for
one
forgiving
look
.
Nor
seldom
let
the
Moor
of
Desdemone
Pour
the
misguided
threats
of
jealous
rage
.
By
soft
degrees
the
manly
torrent
steals
From
my
swoln
eyes
;
and
at
a
brother's
woe
My
big
heart
melts
in
sympathizing
tears
.
What
are
the
splendors
of
the
gaudy
court
,
Its
tinsel
trappings
,
and
its
pageant
pomps
?
To
me
far
happier
seems
the
banish'd
Lord
Amid
Siberia's
unrejoycing
wilds
Who
pines
all
lonesome
,
in
the
chambers
hoar
Of
some
high
castle
shut
,
whose
windows
dim
In
distant
ken
discover
trackless
plains
,
Where
Winter
ever
whirls
his
icy
car
;
While
still-repeated
objects
of
his
view
,
The
gloomy
battlements
,
and
ivied
spires
That
crown
the
solitary
dome
,
arise
;
While
from
the
topmost
turret
the
slow
clock
,
Far
heard
along
th'
inhospitable
wastes
,
With
sad-returning
chime
awakes
new
grief
;
Ev'n
he
far
happier
seems
than
is
the
proud
,
The
potent
Satrap
whom
he
left
behind
'
Mid
Moscow's
golden
palaces
,
to
drown
In
ease
and
luxury
the
laughing
hours
.
Illustrious
objects
strike
the
gazer's
mind
With
feeble
bliss
,
and
but
allure
the
sight
,
Nor
rouze
with
impulse
quick
th'
unfeeling
heart
.
Thus
seen
by
shepherd
from
Hymettus'
brow
,
What
daedal
landscapes
smile
!
here
balmy
groves
,
Resounding
once
with
Plato's
voice
,
arise
,
Amid
whose
umbrage
green
her
silver
head
Th'
unfading
olive
lifts
;
her
vine-clad
hills
Lay
forth
their
purple
store
,
and
sunny
vales
In
prospect
vast
their
level
laps
expand
,
Amid
whose
beauties
glistering
Athens
tow'rs
.
Tho'
thro'
the
blissful
scenes
Ilissus
roll
His
sage-inspiring
flood
,
whose
winding
marge
The
thick-wove
laurel
shades
;
tho'
roseate
Morn
Pour
all
her
splendors
on
th'
empurpled
scene
;
Yet
feels
the
hoary
Hermit
truer
joys
,
As
from
the
cliff
that
o'er
his
cavern
hangs
He
views
the
piles
of
fall'n
Persepolis
In
deep
arrangement
hide
the
darksome
plain
.
Unbounded
waste
!
the
mould'ring
obelisc
Here
,
like
a
blasted
oak
,
ascends
the
clouds
;
Here
Parian
domes
their
vaulted
halls
disclose
Horrid
with
thorn
,
where
lurks
th'
unpitying
thief
,
Whence
flits
the
twilight-loving
bat
at
eve
,
And
the
deaf
adder
wreathes
her
spotted
train
,
The
dwellings
once
of
elegance
and
art
.
Here
temples
rise
,
amid
whose
hallow'd
bounds
Spires
the
black
pine
;
while
thro'
the
naked
street
,
Once
haunt
of
tradeful
merchants
,
springs
the
grass
:
Here
columns
heap'd
on
prostrate
columns
,
torn
From
their
firm
base
,
increase
the
mould'ring
mass
.
Far
as
the
sight
can
pierce
,
appear
the
spoils
Of
sunk
magnificence
!
a
blended
scene
Of
moles
,
fanes
,
arches
,
domes
,
and
palaces
,
Where
,
with
his
brother
Horror
,
Ruin
sits
.
O
come
then
,
Melancholy
,
queen
of
thought
!
O
come
with
saintly
look
,
and
stedfast
step
,
From
forth
thy
cave
embower'd
with
mournful
yew
,
Where
to
the
distant
curfeu's
solemn
sound
List'ning
thou
sitt'st
,
and
with
thy
cypress
bind
Thy
votary's
hair
,
and
seal
him
for
thy
son
.
But
never
let
Euphrósyne
beguile
With
toys
of
wanton
mirth
my
fixed
mind
,
Nor
in
my
path
her
primrose-garland
cast
.
Tho'
'mid
her
train
the
dimpled
Hebe
bare
Her
rosy
bosom
to
th'
enamour'd
view
;
Tho'
Venus
,
mother
of
the
Smiles
and
Loves
,
And
Bacchus
,
ivy-crown'd
,
in
citron-bow'r
With
her
on
nectar-streaming
fruitage
feast
:
What
tho'
'tis
her's
to
calm
the
low'ring
skies
,
And
at
her
presence
mild
th'
embattel'd
clouds
Disperse
in
air
,
and
o'er
the
face
of
heav'n
New
day
diffusive
gleam
at
her
approach
;
Yet
are
these
joys
that
Melancholy
gives
,
Than
all
her
witless
revels
happier
far
;
These
deep-felt
joys
,
by
Contemplation
taught
.
Then
ever
,
beauteous
Contemplation
,
hail
!
From
thee
began
,
auspicious
maid
,
my
song
,
With
thee
shall
end
:
for
thou
art
fairer
far
Than
are
the
nymphs
of
Cirrha's
mossy
grot
;
To
loftier
rapture
thou
canst
wake
the
thought
,
Than
all
the
fabling
Poet's
boasted
pow'rs
.
Hail
,
queen
divine
!
whom
,
as
tradition
tells
,
Once
,
in
his
ev'ning-walk
a
Druid
found
,
Far
in
a
hollow
glade
of
Mona's
woods
;
And
piteous
bore
with
hospitable
hand
To
the
close
shelter
of
his
oaken
bow'r
.
There
soon
the
sage
admiring
mark'd
the
dawn
Of
solemn
musing
in
your
pensive
thought
;
For
when
a
smiling
babe
,
you
lov'd
to
lie
Oft
deeply
list'ning
to
the
rapid
roar
Of
wood-hung
Meinai
,
stream
of
Druids
old
,
That
lav'd
his
hallow'd
haunt
with
dashing
wave
.