Save the cricket on the hearth,
    Or the bellman’s drowsy charm,
    To bless the doors from nightly harm. 
      Or let my lamp at midnight hour
    Be seen on some high lonely tower,
    Where I may oft out-watch the Bear
    With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere
    The spirit of Plato, to unfold
    What worlds, or what vast regions hold
    The immortal mind, that hath forsook
    Her mansion in this fleshly nook;
    And of those demons that are found
    In fire air, flood, or under ground,
    Whose power hath a true consent
    With planet, or with element. 
      Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
    In sceptered pall come sweeping by,
    Presenting Thebes, or Pelops’ line,
    Or the tale of Troy divine,
    Or what (though rare) of later age
    Ennobled hath the buskined stage. 
      But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
    Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
    Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
    Such notes as, warbled to the string,
    Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,
    And made Hell grant what Love did seek! 
    Or call up him that left half-told
    The story of Cambuscan bold,
    Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
    And who had Canace to wife
    That owned the virtuous ring and glass;
    And of the wondrous horse of brass
    On which the Tartar king did ride;
    And if aught else great bards beside
    In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
    Of tourneys and of trophies hung,
    Of forests and enchantments drear,
    Where more is meant than meets the ear. 
      Thus Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
    Till civil-suited Morn appear. 
    Not tricked and frounced as she was wont
    With the Attic Boy to hunt,
    But kerchiefed in a comely cloud
    While rocking winds are piping loud,
    Or ushered with a shower still,
    When the gust hath blown his fill,
    Ending on the rustling leaves,
    With minute drops from off the eaves. 
      And when the sun begins to fling
    His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
    To arched walks of twilight groves,
    And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
    Of pine or monumental oak,
    Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke,
    Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
    Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. 
    There in close covert by some brook
    Where no profaner eye may look,
    Hide me from Day’s garish eye,
    While the bee with honeyed thigh,
    That at her flowery work doth sing,
    And the waters murmuring,
    With such concert as they keep,
    Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep: 
    And let some strange mysterious dream
    Wave at his wings in airy stream
    Of lively portraiture displayed,
    Softly on my eyelids laid: 
    And as I wake sweet music breathe
    Above, about, or underneath,