Thomas Warton (1728–1790)

Abstract from “The Pleasures of Melancholy” 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, or 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! 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,