Where never yet was creeping creature feen.
Mean-time unnumber'd glitt'ring ftreamlets play'd,
And hurled ev'ry-where their waters fheen,

That as they bicker'd thro' the funny glade,
Tho' restless still themselves, lulling murmur made,

Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills

Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills,
And vacant fhepherds piping in the dale;
And now and then sweet Philomel would wail,
Or stock-doves plain amid the foreft deep,
That drowzy ruftled to the fighing gale;

And still a coil the grafhopper did keep:
Yet all these founds yblent inclined all to fleep.

Full in the paffage of the vale, above,

A fable, filent, folemn foreft ftood,

Where nought but fhadowy forms were feen to move,
As Idlefs fancy'd in her dreaming mood;

And

up

the hills, on either fide, a wood

Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro,

Sent forth a fleepy horror thro' the blood:

And where this valley winded out below,

The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.

A pleafing land of drowzy-head it was,

Of dreams that wave before the half-fhut eye,
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
For ever flushing round a fummer-sky;
There eke the foft Delights, that witchingly
Inftil a wanton fweetness thro' the breast,
And the calm Pleasures always hover'd nigh;

But whate'er fmack'd of noyance or unreft,
Was far, far off expell'd, from this delicious neft.

, ་་ ་

The

The landscape fuch, infpiring perfect ease,

Where Indolence (for fo the wizard hight)
Clofe-hid his Caftle mid embowering trees,

That half fhut out the beams of Phoebus bright,
And made a kind of checquer'd day and night;
Mean-while, unceafing, at the maffy gate,
Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight
Was plac'd, and to his lute of cruel fate
And labour harsh complain'd, lamenting man's eftate,

Thither continual pilgrims crouded ftill,

From all the roads of earth that pafs there by;
For as they chaunc'd to breathe on neighbouring hill,
The freshnefs of this valley fmote their eye,
And drew them ever and anon more nigh;

Till clustering round, th' enchanter falfe they hung,
Ymolten with his Syren melody;

While o'er th' enfeebling lute his hand he flung,
And to the trembling chords thefe tempting verfes fung.

Behold! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold!

See all but man with unearn'd pleasure gay;

See her bright robes the butterfly unfold,

Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May!

What youthful bride can equal her array?

Who can with her for easy pleasure vie?
From mead to mead, with gentle wing to ftray,
From flow'r to flow'r, on balmy gales, to fly,
Is all fhe has to do beneath the radiant fky.

Behold the merry minstrels of the morn,

The fwarming fongfters of the careless grove, Ten thousand throats that from the flowering thorn Hymn their good God, and carol-fweet of love,

• Such

Such grateful kindly raptures them emove:

They neither plow nor fow; ne, fit for flail, Ere to the barn the nodden fheaves they drove,

Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, ⚫ Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the vale,

Outcast of Nature, Man! the wretched thrall
Of bitter-dropping fweat, of fweltry pain,
Of cares that eat away thy heart with gall,
And of the vices an inhuman train,
That all proceed from favage thirst of gain;
For when hard-hearted Interest first began
To poifon earth, Aftræa left the plain;

Guile, Violence, and Murder, feiz'd on man,
And, for foft milky streams, with blood the rivers ran.

Come, ye! who ftill the cumbrous load of life
Push hard up hill; but as the farthest steep
You trust to gain, and put an end to strife,
⚫ Down thunders back the ftone with mighty sweep,
And hurls your labours to the valley deep,
For ever vain; come, and withouten fee,

I in oblivion will your forrows steep,

Your cares, your toils, will steep you in a fea
Of full delight: O come, ye weary wights! to me.

With me you need not rife at early dawn,
To pass the joyless day in various stounds;
Or, louting low, on upftart Fortune fawn,
• And fell fair honour for fome paltry pounds;
Or thro' the city take your dirty rounds,

To cheat, and dun, and lye, and vifit pay,
Now flattering base, now giving fecret wounds;
⚫ Or prowl in courts of law for human prey,
In venal fenate thieve, or rob on broad highway.

No

No cocks with me to rustick labour call,

• From village on to village, founding clear; • To tardy swain no shrill-voic'd matron fquall;

No dogs, no babes, no wives, to stun your ear: No hammers thump; no horrid blacksmith fear;

No noisy tradesman your sweet flumbers start,

• With founds that are a mifery to hear;

• But all is calm, as would delight the heart • Of Sybarite of old, all nature, and all art.

• Here nought but candour reigns, indulgent ease, Good-natur'd lounging, fauntering up and down:

They who are pleas'd themselves must always please;
'On other's ways they never fquint a frown,
Nor heed what haps in hamlet or in town:

Thus from the fource of tender indolence

• With milky blood the heart is overflown,

Is footh'd and sweeten'd by the social sense;
For intereft, envy, pride, and ftrife, are banish'd hence.

What, what is virtue, but repofe of mind,

A pure etherial calm, that knows no ftorm, • Above the reach of wild ambition's wind, • Above those paffions that this world deform, And torture man, a proud malignant worm? But here, instead, foft gales of paffion play, And gently ftir the heart, thereby to form

• A quicker fense of joy; as breezes stray

• Across th' enliven'd skies, and make them ftill more gay.

The best of men have ever lov'd repofe;

They hate to mingle in the filthy fray,

• Where the foul fours, and gradual rancour grows,

E'en those whom Fame has lent her fairest ray, The most renown'd of worthy wights of yore, • From a bafe world at last have stol'n away; .. So Scipio, to the foft Cumaan fhore Retiring, tafted joy he never knew before.

But if a little exercife you chafe,

• Some zeft for ease, 'tis not forbidden here:
Amid the groves you may indulge the mufe,
Or tend the blooms, and deck the vernal year;
Or, foftly ftealing with your wat❜ry gear
Along the brooks, the crimson-fpotted fry
You may delude; the whilft, amus'd, you hear,
Now the hoarfe ftream, and now the zephyrs fight
Attuned to the birds and woodland melody,

"O grievous folly! to heap up eftate,

Lofing the days you fee beneath the fun;

• When fudden comes blind unrelenting fate,

And gives th' untafted portion you have won, • With ruthless toil, and many a wretch undone, To those who mock you gone to Pluto's reign, There with fad ghosts to pine and shadows dun: • But fure it is of vanities most vain,

To toil for what you here untoiling may obtain.

He ceas'd; but ftill their trembling ears retain'd
The deep vibrations of his witching fong,
That by a kind of magick power constrain'd
To enter in pell-mell the liftening throng.
Heaps pour'd on heaps, and yet they flipp'd along
In filent eafe; as when beneath the beam
Of fummer-moons, the diftant woods among,
Or by fome flood all-filver'd with the gleam,
The foft-embodied fays thro' airy portal ftream.