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212 POEMS.
COMUS.
Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould
Breathe inch divine inchanting ravifhment?
Sure lbmething holy lodges in that breaft,
And with thefe raptures moves the vocal air
To teftify his hidden refidence :
How fweetly did they float upon the wings
Of fllence, through the empty- vaulted night,
At every fall fmoothing the raven down
Of darknefs till it fmil'd ! I have oft heard
My mother Circe with the Sirens three,
Amidft the flow'ry-kirtled Naiades
Culling their potent herbs, and baleful drugs,
Who as they fung would take the prifon'd foul,
And lap it in Elyfium; Scylla wept,
And chid her barking waves into attention,
And fell Charybdis murmur'd foft applaufe:
Yet they in pleating flumber lull'd the fenfe,
And in fweet madnefs robb'd it of itfelf ,
But fuch a facred, and home-felt delight,
Such fober certainty of waking blifs
I never heard till now. I'll fpeak to her,
And the fhall be my queen. Hail foreign wonder,
Whom certain thefe rough fliades did never breed,
Unlefs the Goddefs that in rural flirine
Dwell'ft here with Pan, or Silvan, by blefl fong
Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog
To touch the profp'ious growth of this tall wood.
LADY.
Nay gentle fhepherd, ill is loft that praife
That is addrefs'd to unattending ears;