 | Mundi et Cordis |  |
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IV. A HYMN TO MELANCHOLY.
On the soft rose of her most vernal cheekMy warm lips take their banquet tremblingly:
She is not angry—no; nor doth she speak;
But her soul argues from her rich-ray'd eye,
By of bright tears a starry embassy,
That herald solace—Ah! my Spirit's Woe!
Thy moody fit hath prompted, in an hour,
More than had ever issued from the flow
Of Joy, vine-crown'd with all rejoicing power.
Oh! then I bless thee, god-born Melancholy!
And thou art wisdom, though fools call thee folly:
The brief duration of my lone life's dower
Fleets to extinction; but, heart-led by thee,
I've raised a flower to scent Eternity.
| Mundi et Cordis | |