Contemplation. an Ode

Contemplation, lovely fair, Far from scenes of noise and care, Evermore delights to dwell In the still sequester'd cell: Lead me then, propitious power, To thy lonely, rural bower; To the silent, shady wood, To the rivulet's dimpling flood: And, on summer mornings, lead To the russet heath or mead: To the cot's plain simple door, The ploughman's peaceful, happy floor: Where Phyllis brings her loaded pail, And young affection lisps its tale; Lead to dusky lanes or shades, Where tall oaks lift high their heads: To the seat of happiness, To the garden's lov'd recess; Beds with pinks and roses gay, The pride and boast of June and May,

Contemplation, nymph serene, Guide to lawns, or uplands green, Or near the promontory's side— Let me hear the roaring tide, Hear old Ocean's wild waves roll;— On the sad knell slowly toll, Or, at gloomy hour of day, With me to the church-yard stray, And meditate among the dead; While the sexton plies his spade, There peruse the time-worn stones, Or, as he turns up human bones, Think on what I soon must be, Think on vast eternity: 'Till torches dissipate the gloom, And the sable mourners come; 'Till the venerable priest, In his snowy surplice dress'd, Loudly begins the solemn lines, And "dust to dust," at length consigns.

Hail! matron lovely, tho' demure, Ever chaste and ever pure, Diffuse thy balm into my breast, Bring with thee happiness and rest: Sooth each melancholy sigh, Teach me to live, and teach to die!