
REE 

ODE ON MELANCHOLY. 
And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, 
The sweetest fiower for scent that blows; 
And all rare blossoms from every clime, 


Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 


Ode on AMelancholy. 
O, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist 

Wolt’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine ; 
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d 
By night shade, ruby grape of Proserpine ; 
' Make not your rosary of yew-berries, 
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be 
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl 






A partner in your sorrows’ mysteries ; 

For shade to shade will come too drowsily, 

And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 
But when the melancholy fit shall fall 
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, 
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, 
And hides the green hill in an April shroud ; 












