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 | The poetical works of Henry Kirke White |  |
Come, Melancholy, sister mine!
Cold the dews, and chill the night!
Come from thy dreary shrine!
The wan moon climbs the heavenly height,
And underneath her sickly ray
Troops of squalid spectres play,
And the dying mortals' groan
Startles the night on her dusky throne.
Come, come, sister mine!
Gliding on the pale moonshine:
We'll ride at ease
On the tainted breeze,
And oh! our sport will be divine.
The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep glen in the rear, habited in black, and covered with a thick veil.—She speaks.
Cold the dews, and chill the night!
Come from thy dreary shrine!
The wan moon climbs the heavenly height,
And underneath her sickly ray
Troops of squalid spectres play,
And the dying mortals' groan
Startles the night on her dusky throne.
Come, come, sister mine!
103
We'll ride at ease
On the tainted breeze,
And oh! our sport will be divine.
The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep glen in the rear, habited in black, and covered with a thick veil.—She speaks.
| The poetical works of Henry Kirke White | |