IL PENSEROSO.

Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,

Sober, steadfast, and demure,

All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of cypress lawn,
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step, and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eves:
There, held in holy passion still,
Forget thyself to marble, till,

With a sad leaden downward cast,

Thou fix them on the earth as fast;

And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet,
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses, in a ring,

Aye round about Jove's altar sing.
And add to these retired Leisure,

That in trim gardens takes his pleasure.

But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The cherub Contemplation;
And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song,
In her sweetest saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
Gently o'er the accustom'd oak:

Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,

Most musical, most melancholy!".

Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among,

I woo, to hear thy even-song;