Or if the Air will not permit,

Some still removed place will fit,

Where glowing Embers through the room.
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all refort of mirth,

Save the Cricket on the hearth,
Or the Belman's drowfie charm,

To bless the doors from nightly harm:
Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,
Be feen in fome high lonely Tow'r,
where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear
The spirit of Plato to unfold

What Worlds, or what vaft Regions hold
The immortal mind that hath forfook
Her manfion in this fleshly nook:
And of thofe Damons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground;
Whose power hath a true confent
With Planet, or with Element.
Sometime let Gorgeous Tragedy
In Scepter'd Pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebs, or Pelops line,
Or the tale of Troy divine.

Or what (though rare) of later age,
Ennobled hath the Buskin'd stage.
But, O fad Virgin, that thy power
Might raife Mufaus from his bower,
Or bid the Soul of Orpheus fing
Such notes as warbled to the ftring,

Drew Iron tears down Pluto's cheek,

And made Hell grant what Love did seek. Or call up him that left half told

The story of Cambuscan bold,

Of Camball, and of Algarfife,

And who had Canace to wife,

That own'd the vertuous Ring and Glass,
And of the wondrous Horfe of Brass,
On which the Tartar King did ride;
And if ought elfe, great Bards befide,
In fage and folemn tunes have fung,
Of Turneys and of Trophies hung;
Of Forefts, and Inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear,
Thus night oft fee me in thy pale career,
Till civil-fuited Morn appear,

Not trickt and, frounc't as the was wont,
With the Attick Boy to hunt,

But Cherchef't in a comely Cloud,
While rocking Winds are Piping loud,

Or ufher'd with a fhower ftill,

When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rufsling Leaves,
With minute drops from off the Eaves.
And when the Sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me Goddess bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And hadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of Pine, or monumental Oake,
where the rude Ax with heaved (troke,

Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in close covert by fome Brook,
Where no profaner eyé may look,
Hide me from Day's garish eie,
While the Bee with Honied thie,
That at her flowry work doth fing,
And the Waters murmuring
With fuch confort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep;
And let fome ftrange myfterious dream,
Wave at his wings in Airy ftream
Of lively portrature difplay'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid.

And as I wake, fweet mufick breath
Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by fome fpirit to mortals good,
Or th'unfeen Genius of the Wood.
But let my due feet never fail,
To walk the ftudious Cloysters pale,
And love the high embowed Roof,
With antick Pillars mafly proof,
And ftoried Window's richly dight,
Cafting a dimm religious light.
There let the pealing Organ blow,
To the full voic'd Quire below,
In Service high, and Anthems clear,
As may with Tweetness, through mine ear,
Diffolve me into extafies,

And bring all Heav'a before mine eyes.

And may at laft my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The Hairy Gown and Moffy Cell,
Where I may fit and rightly spell
Of every Star that Heav'n doth fhew,
And every Herb that fips the dew;
Till old experience do atrain
To fomething like Prophetic ftrain.
These pleasures Melancholy give,
And I with thee will choose to live.

ARCADES.

Part of an Entertainment presented to the Countess Dowager of Derby at Harefield, by fome Noble Perfons of her Family, who appear on the Scene in Paftoral Habit, moving toward the feat of State, with this Song.

L

SONG.

Ook Nymphs, and Shepherds look,
What fudden blaze of Majesty

Is that which we from hence defcry
Too divine to be miftook:

This this is the

To whom our vows and wishes bend,
Here our folemn fearch hath end.

Fame that her high worth to raise,
Seem'd erft fo lavish and profufe,
We may justly now accufe
Of detraction from her praife,
Lefs than half we find expreft,
Envy bid conceal the rest.
Mark what radiant ftate the fpreds,
In circle round her shining throne,
Shooting her beams fike filver threds,
This this is the alone,

Sitting like a Goddess bright,
In the center of her light.
Might the the wife Latona be,
Or the towred Cybele,

Mother of a hundred gods ;

Juno dares not give her odds;

Who had thought this clime had held
A deity fo unparalel'd?

As they come forward, the Genius of the Wood appears, and turning toward them, fpeaks.

Gen. Tay gentle Swains, for though in this disguise, STAY

I fee bright honour sparkle through your eyes>

Of famous Arcady ye are, and fprung
Of that renowned flood, fo often fung,
Divine Alpheus, who by fecret fluce,
Stole under Seas to meet his Arethuse;
And ye the breathing Rofes of the Wood,
Fair filver-buskin❜d Nymphs as great and good,