To Melancholy

Come, thou Queen of pensive air, In thy sable, sooted car, By two mournful turtles drawn— Let me meet thee on you lawn, With decent vestments wrapt around, And thy brows with cypress bound! Quickly come, thou sober dame, And thy musing Poet claim. Bear me, where thou lov'st to rove, In the deep, dark, solemn grove; Where, on banks of velvet green, Peace, with Silence, still is seen; And Leisure, at the sultry noon, On flowry carpet flings him down— There, sweet Queen! I'll sing thy pleasures In euthusiastic measures, And sound thy praise thro' the lone vale, Responsive to the hollow gale; The murm'ring rills shall spread it round, And grottoes the wild notes rebound.—