The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/Melancholye
Melancholye.
Adieu! al vaine delightes
Of calm and moonshine nightes;
Adieu! al pleasant shade
That forests thicke have made;
Adieu! al musick swete
That little fountaynes poure,
When blythe theire waters greete
The lovesick lyly-flowre.
Adieu! the fragrant smel
Of flowres in boskye dell;
And all the merrie notes
That tril from smal birdes' throates;
Adieu! the gladsome lighte
Of Day, Morne, Noone, or E'en;
And welcome gloomy Nighte,
When not one star is seen.
Adieu! the deafening noyse
Of cities, and the joyes
Of Fashioun's sicklie birth;
Adieu! al boysterous mirthe,
Al pageant, pompe, and state,
And every flauntynge thing
To which the would-be-great
Of earth in madness cling.
Come with me, Melancholye,
We'll live like eremites holie,
In some deepe uncouthe wild
Where sunbeame never smylde:
Come 'with me, pale of hue,
To some lone silent spot,
Where blossom never grewe,
Which man hath quite forgot.
Come with thy thought-filled eye,
That notes no passer by,
And drouping solemne head,
Where phansyes strange are bred,
And saddening thoughts doe brood,
Which idly strive to borrow
A smyle to vaile thy moode
Of heart-abyding sorrow.
Come to yon blasted mound
Of phantom-haunted ground,
Where spirits love to be;
And list the moody glee
Of night-windes as they moane,
And the ocean's sad replye
To the wild unhallowed tone
Of the wandering sea-bird's cry.
There sit with me and keep
Vigil when al doe sleepe;
And when the curfeu bell
Hath rung its mournfull knel,
Let us together blend
Our mutual sighes and teares,
Or chaunt some metre penned,
Of the joies of other yeares!
Or in cavern hoare and damp,
Lit by the glow-worm's lamp,
We'll muse on the dull theme
Of Life's heart-sickening dreame—
Of Time's resistlesse powre—
Of Hope's deceitful lips—
Of Beauty's short-livde houre—
And Glory's dark eclipse!
Or, wouldst thou rather chuse
This World's leaf to peruse,
Beneath some dripping vault
That scornes rude Time's assaulte;
Whose close-ribbed arches still
Frown in their green old age,
And stamp an awfull chill
Upon that pregnant page?
Yes, thither let us turne,
To this Time-shattered urne,
And quaintly carved stone—
(Dim wrackes of ages gone;)
Here on this mouldering tomb
We'll con that noblest truth,
The Flesh and Spirit's doome—
Dust and Immortall Youthe.