. . .
Then, when the sullen shades of ev'ning close,
Where thro' the room a blindly-glimm'ring gleam
The dying embers scatter, far remote
From Mirth's mad shouts, that thro' th' illumin'd roof
Resound with festive echo, let me sit,
Blest with the lowly cricket's drowsy dirge. . . .
O come then, Melancholy, queen of thought!
O come with saintly look, and steadfast step,
From forth thy cave embower'd with mournful yew,
Where ever to the curfeu's solemn sound
List'ning thou sitt'st, and with thy cypress bind
Thy votary's hair, and seal him for thy son.
Melancholy seems not to have answered these advances. In later life
Warton was a short, squat, red-faced man, fond of ale, and a cheerful
talker, with a thick utterance, so that he gobbled like a turkey-cock.
Some of his verses are cheerful. This is from the _Ode on the Approach
of Summer_:
Haste thee, Nymph! and hand in hand
With thee lead a buxom band;
Bring fantastic-footed Joy,
With Sport, that yellow-tressed boy:
Leisure, that through the balmy sky
Chases a crimson butterfly.
Bring Health, that loves in early dawn
To meet the milk-maid on the lawn;
Bring Pleasure, rural nymph, and Peace,
Meek, cottage-loving shepherdess!
It is all like this, fluent and unnecessary. Perhaps no verses in
English were ever made so exactly in the approved fashion of modern Latin
verses.
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