תמונות בעמוד

Thus easy rob'd, they to the fountain sped,
That in the middle of the court up-threw
A stream, high spouting from its liquid bed,
And falling back again in drizzly dew:
Thereeachdeep draughts, as deep he thirsted, drew.
It was a fountain of nepenthe rare:
Whence, as Dan Homer sings, huge pleasaunce

grew, And sweet oblivion of vile earthly care; Fair gladsome waking thoughts, and joyous dreams

more fair.

This rite perform'd, all inly pleas'd and still,
Withouten tromp was proclamation made.
“ Ye sons of Indolence, do what you will ;
And wander where you list, through hall or glade!
Be no man's pleasure for another staid;
Let each as likes him best his hours employ,
And curs'd be he who minds his neighbour's trade !

Here dwells kind ease and unreproving joy :
He little merits bliss who others can annoy."

Strait of these endless numbers, swarming round,
As thick as idle motes in sunny ray,
Not one eftsoons in view was to be found,
But every man strollid off his own glad way,
Wide o'er this ample court's blank area,
With all the lodges that thereto pertain’d,
No living creature could be seen to stray;

While solitude and perfect silence reign'd:
So that to think you dreamt you almost was constrain'd.

As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-isles,
Plac'd far amid the melancholy main,
(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles ;
Or that aerial beings sometimes deign
To stand embodied, to our senses plain)
Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,
The whilst in ocean Phæbus dips his wain,

A vast assembly moving to and fro;
Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.

Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound !
Whose soft dominion o'er this castle sways,
And all the widely-silent places round,
Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays
What never yet was sung in mortal lays.
But how shall I attempt such arduous string,
I who have spent my nights and nightly days

In this soul-deadening place, loose-loitering? Ah! how shall I for this uprear my molted wing ?

Come on, my Muse, nor stoop to low despair,
Thou imp of Jove, touch'd by celestial fire !
Thou yet shalt sing of war, and actions fair,
Which the bold sons of Britain will inspire ;
Of ancient bards thou yet shall sweep the lyre;
Thou yet shall tread in tragic pall the stage,
Paint love's enchanting woes, the hero's ire,

The sage's calm, the patriot's noble rage, Dashing corruption down through every worthless


The doors, that knew no shrill alarming bell,
Ne cursed knocker ply'd by villain's hand,
Self-open'd into halls, where, who can tell
What elegance and grandeur wide expand,
The pride of Turkey and of Persia land?
Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread,
And couches stretch'd around in seemly band;

And endless pillows rise to prop the head;
So that each spacious room was one full-swelling bed.

And every where huge cover'd tables stood,
With wines high flavour'd and rich viands crown'd;
Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food
On the green bosom of this earth are found,
And all old ocean genders in his round:
Some hand unseen these silently display'd,
Ev'n undemanded by a sign or sound;

You need but wish, and, instantly obey'd,
Fair rang'd the dishes rose, and thick the glasses


Here freedom reign'd, without the least alloy ; Nor gossip's tale, nor ancient maiden's gall, Nor saintly spleen durst murmur at our joy, And with envenom’d tongue our pleasures pall. For why? there was but one great rule for all; To wit, that each should work his own desire, And eat, drink, study, sleep, as it may fall, Or melt the time in love, or wake the lyre, And carol what, unbid, the Muses might inspire.

The rooms with costly tapestry were hung,
Where was inwoven many a gentle tale ;
Such as of old the rural poets sung,
Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale:
Reclining lovers, in the lonely dale,
Pour'd forth at large the sweetly-tortur'd heart;
Or, sighing tender passion, swell’d the gale,

And taught charm'd echo to resound their smart ; While flocks, woods, streams, around, repose and

peace impart.

Those pleas'd the most, where, by a cunning hand,
Depainted was the patriarchal age;
What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land,
And pastur'd on from verdant stage to stage,
Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage.
Toil was not then. Of nothing took they heed,
But with wild beasts the sylvan war to wage,

And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed : Blest sons of nature they' true golden age


Sometimes tne pencil, in cool airy halls,
Bade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes rise,
Or autumn's varied shades imbrown the walls :
Now the black tempest strikes th' astonish'd eyes,
Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies ;
The trembling sun now plays o'er ocean blue,
And now rude mountains frown amid the skies;

Whate'er Lorraine light-touch'd with softening hue, Or savage Rosa dash'd, or learned Poussin drew.

Each sound too here, to languishment inclin'd,
Lull’d the weak bosom, and induced ease,
Aerial music in the warbling wind,
At distance rising oft by small degrees,
Nearer and nearer came, till o'er the trees
It hung, and breath'd such soul-dissolving airs,
As did, alas ! with soft perdition please :

Entangled deep in its enchanting snares,
The listening heart forgot all duties and all cares.

A certain music, never known before,
Here lull'd the pensive melancholy mind;
Full easily obtain'd. Behoves no more,
But sidelong, to the gently-waving wind,
To lay the well-tun'd instrument reclin'd;
From which, with airy flying fingers light,
Beyond each mortal touch the most refin’d,

The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight: Whence, with just cause, the harp of Æolus it hight.

Ah me! what hand can touch the string so fine?
Who up the lofty diapason roll
Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine,
Then let them down again into the soul ?
Now rising love they fann'd; now pleasing dole
They breath'd, in tender musings, through the

And now a graver sacred strain they stole,

As when seraphic hands an hymn impart: Wild-warbling nature all, above the reach of art!

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