Thomas Warton

(From The Pleasures of Melancholy)

Mother of musings, Contemplation sage,   
Whose grotto stands upon the topmost rock   
Of Teneriffe: mid the tempestuous night,   
On which, in calmest meditation held,   
Thou hear’st with howling winds the beating rain           
And drifting hail descend; or if the skies   
Unclouded shine, and through the blue serene   
Pale Cynthia rolls her silver-axled car,   
Whence gazing steadfast on the spangled vault   
Raptured thou sitt’st, while murmurs indistinct           
Of distant billows soothe thy pensive ear   
With hoarse and hollow sounds; secure, self-blest,   
There oft thou listen’st to the wild uproar   
Of fleets encountering, that in whispers low   
Ascends the rocky summit, where thou dwell’st           
Remote from man, conversing with the spheres!