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Mary Darby Robinson - Ode to MelancholyMary Darby Robinson - Ode to Melancholy
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SORC`RESS of the Cave profound!    Hence, with thy pale, and meagre train,    Nor dare my roseate bow`r profane,    Where light-heel`d mirth despotic reigns,    Slightly bound in feath`ry chains,      And scatt`ring blisses round.    Hence, to thy native Chaos­where    Nurs`d by thy haggard Dam, DESPAIR,    Shackled by thy numbing spell,    Mis`ry`s pallid children dwell;  Where, brooding o`er thy fatal charms,    FRENZY rolls the vacant eye;  Where hopeless LOVE, with folded arms,    Drops the tear, and heaves the sigh;  Till cherish`d Passion`s tyrant sway Chills the warm pulse of Youth, with premature decay.    O, fly Thee, to some Church-yard`s gloom,    Where beside the mould`ring tomb,      Restless Spectres glide away,      Fading in the glimpse of Day;    Or, where the Virgin ORB of Night,      Silvers o`er the Forest wide,      Or across the silent tide,    Flings her soft, and quiv`ring light:      Where, beneath some aged Tree,      Sounds of mournful Melody Caught from the NIGHTINGALE`s enamour`d Tale, Steal on faint Echo`s ear, and float upon the gale.  DREAD POW`R! whose touch magnetic leads  O`er enchanted spangled meads,  Where by the glow-worm`s twinkling ray,  Aëry Spirits lightly play;    Where around some Haunted Tow`r,      Boding Ravens wing their flight,      Viewless, in the gloom of Night,    Warning oft the luckless hour;      Or, beside the Murd`rer`s bed,    From thy dark, and morbid wing,      O`er his fev`rish, burning head,    Drops of conscious auguish fling; While freezing HORROR`s direful scream, Rouses his guilty soul from kind oblivion`s dream.      Oft, beneath the witching Yew,    The trembling MAID, steals forth unseen;    With true-love wreaths, of deathless green,      Her Lover`s grave to strew;    Her downcast Eye, no joy illumes,    Nor on her Cheek, the soft Rose blooms; Her mourning Heart, the victim of thy pow`r, Shrinks from the glare of Mirth, and hails the MURKY HOUR.      O, say what FIEND first gave thee birth,    In what fell Desart, wert thou born;    Why does thy hollow voice, forlorn,      So fascinate the Sons of Earth; That once encircled in thy icy arms, They court thy torpid touch, and doat upon thy Charms?    HATED IMP,­I brave thy Spell,      REASON shuns thy barb`rous sway;      Life, with mirth should glide away,    Despondency, with guilt should dwell;      For conscious TRUTH`s unruffled mien,    Displays the dauntless Eye, and patient smile serene.
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