Ye gentle, nameless Bards, who float a-down The soft smoothe Stream of silver poesy 130 And dream your pretty Dreams, permit my Song Cold inspiration from a Winter's Night. This is no Stanza'd Birth-Day of his Grace, Your patron; no sad Satire of the Lord, Your Foe; no Dunciad arm'd with power, To dive into the Depths of your profound, And with a vile assemblage gather'd there Whip the pale Moonshine from your with'ring Bays.-- Is there, who sick of Pleasure's daily Draught, In repetition mawkish, or who tir'd 140 Thinks Life an Idiot's Tale? or whom the Hand Of [Disappointment] snatches from the Vice That waits on power? or who has lost a friend, And mingles with the dew that wets his Tomb A frequent Tear? or who by Nature's mild And melancholy Bias from the Womb Was fashioned for the View of serious Things, And with the sober chiding of his eye, Freezes the [Current] within Laughter's Cheek, And awes the Voice of loud Garrulity? 150 Let him approach, and I will tell my Soul, EUGENIO rises from the Grave, and give The Living Youth the Manners of my Friend. From the Enshrouded Tenant of the Sod I'll call the speaking Eye, the open Heart, The Tongue belov'd of Knowledge, and the Form That, could Deceit put on, Grey-headed Guile, That judges from his own embosom'd Guilt, Would yet be won, and lend a ductile Ear. Together, while the [Echo's] feeble Sound, 160 Halting in frozen regions of the Air, Mocks our slow Step, we from the Mountain's Brow, Will look around and court the Stars of Heav'n For as much Light as guides the Miser's hand, To grasp Delusion in her Guise of Gold.-- The Morn is banish'd now, nor down the Hill Slopes the faint Shadow; now in other Realms She drinks the Dew that on the Vi'lets Lip Slept thro' the Night; and, with her golden Dart Bays the pale Moon, retiring from the View. 170 In other Climates, from the rays of Noon Embower'd, Content lies sleeping; and the palm Drinking the fiery Stream, plays o'er the Brow Of shadied Weariness; and distant now Draws meek-ey'd Eve, with even hand and slow, The fringed Curtain of the setting Sun, Ting'd with the golden Splendour he bequeaths, The brief, but beauteous Legacy of Light. 'Tis Midnight round us, canopied by Dim And twinkling Orbs that, gleaming ghastly, gild 180 The restless Bosom of the briny Deep. The fiery Meteor in the foggy Air Rides emulous of Fame and apes the Star, Till, in the Compass of a Maiden's Wish, It mocks the Eye, and sheds an [igneous] Stream, Within the bosom of Oblivion.