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MELANCHOLY; PINDARIC ODE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: What in the name of wonder's this
Last Line: And that they have disgrac'd themselves to honour thee.
Subject(s): Melancholy; Dejection


I

WHAT in the name of wonder's this
Which lies so heavy at my heart,
That I ev'n Death itself could kiss,
And think it were the greatest bliss
Even at this moment to depart!
Life, even to the wretched dear,
To me 's so nauseous grown,
There is no ill, I'd not commit,
But proud of what would forfeit it,
Would act the mischief without fear,
And wade through thousand lives to lose my own.

II

Yea, Nature never taught me bloody rules;
Nor was I yet with vicious precept bred;
And now my virtue paints my cheeks in gules,
To check me for the wicked thing I said.
'Tis not then I, but something in my breast,
With which unwittingly I am possest,
Which breathes forth horror to proclaim
That I am now no more the same:
One that some seeds of virtue had;
But one run resolutely mad,
A fiend, a fury, and a beast,
Or a demoniac at least,
Who, without sense of sin, or shame,
At nothing but dire mischiefs aim,
Egg'd by the Prince of Fiends, and Legion is his name.

III

Alas! my reason's overcast,
That sovereign guide is quite displac't,
Clearly dismounted from his throne,
Banished his empire, fled and gone,
And in his room
An infamous usurper's come,
Whose name is sounding in mine ear
Like that, methinks of Oliver.
Nay, I remember in his life,
Such a disease as mine was mighty rife,
And yet, methinks, it cannot be,
That he
Should be crept into me,
My skin could ne'er contain sure so much evil,
Nor any place but Hell can hold so great a Devil.

IV

But by its symptoms now I know
What is that does torment me so,
'Tis a disease,
As great a Fiend almost as these,
That drinks up all my better blood,
And leaves the rest a standing pool,
And though I ever little understood,
Makes me a thousand times more fool;
Fumes up dark vapours to my brain,
Creates burnt choler in my breast,
And of these nobler parts possest,
Tyrannically there does reign,
Oh when (kind Heaven) shall I be well again.

V

Accursed Melancholy, it was Sin
First brought thee in;
Sin lodg'd thee first in our first Father's breast,
By sin thou 'rt nourish't, and by sin increast,
Thou 'rt man's own creature, he has giv'n thee pow'r,
The sweets of life thus to devour.
To make us shun the cheerful light,
And creep into the shades of night,
Where the sly tempter ambushed lies
To make the discontented soul his prize.
There the progenitor of guile,
Accosts us in th' old Serpent's style;
Rails at the World as well as we,
Nay, Providence itself 's not free;
Proceeding then to arts of flattery,
He there extols our valour and our parts,
Spreads all his nets to catch our hearts,
Concluding thus: "what generous mind
Would longer here draw breath,
That might so sure a refuge find,
In the repose of Death!"
Which having said, he to our choice presents
All his destroying instruments,
Swords and stilettos, halters, pistols, knives,
Poisons, both quick and slow, to end our lives,
Or if we like none of those fine devices,
He then presents us pools and precipices;
Or to let out, or suffocate our breath,
And by once dying to obtain an everlasting Death.

VI

Avaunt thou Devil Melancholy,
Thou grave and sober folly;
Night of the mind, wherein our reasons grope
For future joys, but never can find hope.
Parent of murders, treasons, and despair,
Thou pleasing and eternal care:
Go sow thy rank and pois'nous seeds
In such a soil of mind as breeds,
With little help, black and nefarious deeds;
And let my whiter soul alone,
For why should I thy sable weed put on,
Who never meditated ill, nor ill have never done!

VII

Ah, 'tis ill done to me, that makes me sad
And thus to pass away,
With sighs the tedious nights, and does
Like one that either is, or will be mad.
Repentance can our own foul souls make pure,
And expiate the foulest deed,
Whereas the thought others' offences breed,
Nothing but true amendment one can cure.
Thus man, who of this world a member is,
Is by good nature subject made
To smart for what his fellows do amiss,
As he were guilty, when he is betray'd,
And mourning for the vices of the time,
Suffers unjustly for another's crime.

VIII

Go foolish Soul, and wash thee white,
Be troubled for thine own misdeeds,
That heav'nly sorrow comfort breeds,
And true contrition turns delight.
Let Princes thy past services forget,
Let dear-bought friends thy foes become,
Though round with misery thou art beset,
With scorn abroad, and poverty at home,
Keep yet thy hands but clear, and conscience pure,
And all the ills thou shalt endure
Will on thy worth such lustre set
As shall outshine the brightest coronet.
And men at last will be asham'd to see,
That still,
For all their malice, and malicious skill,
Thy mind revive as it was us'd to be,
And that they have disgrac'd themselves to honour thee.





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