ODE TO MELANCHOLY.

Come, let us set our careful breasts,
Like Philomel, against the thorn,
To aggravate the inward grief,
That makes her accents so forlorn;
The world has many cruel points,
Whereby our bosoms have been torn,
And there are dainty themes of grief,
In sadness to outlast the morn,—­
True honor’s dearth, affection’s death,
Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn,
With all the piteous tales that tears
Have water’d since the world was born.

The world!—­it is a wilderness,
Where tears are hung on every tree;
For thus my gloomy phantasy
Makes all things weep with me! 
Come let us sit and watch the sky,
And fancy clouds, where no clouds be;
Grief is enough to blot the eye,
And make heaven black with misery. 
Why should birds sing such merry notes,
Unless they were more blest than we? 
No sorrow ever chokes their throats,
Except sweet nightingale; for she
Was born to pain our hearts the more
With her sad melody. 
Why shines the Sun, except that he
Makes gloomy nooks for Grief to hide,
And pensive shades for Melancholy,
When all the earth is bright beside? 
Let clay wear smiles, and green grass wave,
Mirth shall not win us back again,
Whilst man is made of his own grave,
And fairest clouds but gilded rain!

I saw my mother in her shroud,
Her cheek was cold and very pale;
And ever since I’ve look’d on all
As creatures doom’d to fail! 
Why do buds ope except to die? 
Ay, let us watch the roses wither,
And think of our loves’ cheeks;
And oh! how quickly time doth fly
To bring death’s winter hither! 
Minutes, hours, days, and weeks,
Months, years, and ages, shrink to nought;
An age past is but a thought!

Ay, let us think of Him awhile
That, with a coffin for a boat,
Rows daily o’er the Stygian moat,
And for our table choose a tomb: 
There’s dark enough in any skull
To charge with black a raven plume;
And for the saddest funeral thoughts
A winding-sheet hath ample room,
Where Death, with his keen-pointed style,
Hath writ the common doom. 
How wide the yew-tree spreads its gloom,
And o’er the dead lets fall its dew,
As if in tears it wept for them,
The many human families
That sleep around its stem!

How cold the dead have made these stones,
With natural drops kept ever wet! 
Lo! here the best—­the worst—­the world
Doth now remember or forget,
Are in one common ruin hurl’d,
And love and hate are calmly met;
The loveliest eyes that ever shone,
The fairest hands, and locks of jet. 
Is’t not enough to vex our souls,
And fill our eyes, that we have set
Our love upon a rose’s leaf,
Our hearts upon a violet? 
Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yet;
And sometimes at their swift decay
Beforehand we must fret. 
The roses bud and bloom, again;
But Love may haunt the grave of Love,
And watch the mould in vain.