Forgive me then, ye Wise, who seem awake, A Midnight Song, and let your Censure sleep; While Sorrow's Theme, and Contemplation sad, And Soul-dilating Fancy's pensive Flight Through Star-crown'd Gloom, I sing; inspir'd by her, Whom Virtue loves, whom Wisdom; from whose Touch Grief borrows Charm, and Expectation sits On the cold Bosom of the Tomb serene. Pale Melancholy she; nor softer shines 20 The sabled Fair, her Votress, o'er the Grave Of the departed Lover; nor more mild Sits yonder Moon's chaste ray upon the Rock, That, rising from the Bosom of the Wave, Flings Awe on Night. Thou Grave-enamour'd Fair, Attune my Song, and, languid as thou art, The Song shall please; and I will paint the Dream That Midnight gave thee, when with wintry Wing She swept thy Grot, and shook her grisled Dew Upon the frozen Garment of the pool; 30 And I will drown mine Eye in Tears like thine, And give my hollow Cheek a dewy pale, And dress me in the Livery of the Dead; And o'er their dreary Mansions walk with thee; Bidding a brief Farewell to little Cares, And Visionary Honour's frantic Sons, Who feed on Adulation--let them feed, Till the full Soul disdains the nauseous Trash, And sickens with Repletion.-- I will ask, No Voice of Fame to spread abroad my Song, 40 Nor Court Applause--Meonides had Fame, And with her poverty and pain and Care, Attendants on the Bard-deluding Nymph, Who mock the Babbling of her loudest Note; From Heaven he stole Description, Nature's Key, And loosen'd into Light her Mysteries; Ambition started when he sang of War, In Language all her own; and o'er his Lyre Hung Devastation, glowing at the Sound, And frantic for the Field; and there Distress, 50 As if enamour'd of the Mighty Man, With cruel Constancy repaid his Muse; And chiding Fame, by whispering to the Soul Domestic Ills, she [triumph'd] over praise, And, through th' untasted Plaudit of a World, Led the blind Bard in Sadness to the Tomb.-- I ask no Mantuan Muse with silver Wing To bear me in some rapid even flight Thro' distant Ages, tho' so sweet her Bard That yet the Traveller o'er each Hill he sang, 60 Transported, [wanders], feeling power divine New-rising on his Soul to chain its Cares. Imagination turns the Tide of Time, Unwinds each year, and, thro' reviving Light, And thro' the vandal Gloom of Centuries drear, And falling Rome works back, till Nature smiles And [Tityrus] sings anew; then laughs each Scene, And cloudless skies appear, and Beachen Boughs That Shade the [Nereids] listning from their Streams.--