Of all the gentle tenants of the place, There was a man of special grave remark: A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face, Pensive, not sad, in thought involv'd, not dark, As soon this man could sing as morning-lark, And teach the noblest morals of the heart: But these his talents were yburied stark; Of the fine stores he nothing would impart, Which or boon Nature gave, or nature-painting Art.

To noontide shades incontinent he ran,
Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound;
Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began,
Amid the broom he bask'd him on the ground,
Where the wild thyme and camomile are found:
There would he linger, till the latest ray

Of light sat trembling on the welkin's bound;
Then homeward through the twilight shadows

stray,

Sauntering and slow. So had he passed many a day.

Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they past:
For oft the heavenly fire, that lay conceal'd
Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast,
And all its native light anew reveal'd:
Oft as he travers'd the cerulean field,

1

And markt the clouds that drove before the wind, Ten thousand glorious systems would he build, Ten thousand great ideas fill'd his mind;

But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace be

hind.

With him was sometimes join'd, in silent walk, (Profoundly silent, for they never spoke) One shyer still, who quite detested talk: Oft, stung by spleen, at once away he broke, To groves of pine, and broad o'ershadowing oak; There, inly thrill'd, he wander'd all alone; And on himself his pensive fury wroke, Ne ever utter'd word, save when first shone The glittering star of eve" Thank heaven! the day is done."

Here lurk'd a wretch, who had not crept abroad For forty years, ne face of mortal seen; In chamber brooding like a loathly toad: And sure his linen was not very clean. Through secret loop-holes, that had practis'd been Near to his bed, his dinner vile he took; Unkempt, and rough, of squalid face and mien, Our castle's shame! whence, from his filthy nook, We drove the villain out for fitter lair to look.

One day there chaunc'd into these halls to rove A joyous youth, who took you at first sight; Him the wild wave of pleasure hither drove, Before the sprightly tempest tossing light: Certes, he was a most engaging wight, Of social glee, and wit humane, though keen, Turning the night to day, and day to night: For him the merry bells had rung, I ween, If in this nook of quiet bells had ever been.

But not ev'n pleasure to excess is good: What most elates then sinks the soul as low: When spring-tide joy pours in with copious flood, The higher still th' exulting billows flow, The farther back again they flagging go, And leave us groveling on the dreary shore: Taught by this son of joy we found it so; Who, whilst he staid, kept in a gay uproar Our madden'd castle all, th' abode of sleep no more,

As when in prime of June a burnish'd fly,
Sprung from the meads, o'er which he sweeps along,
Cheer'd by the breathing bloom and vital sky,
Tunes up amid these airy halls his song,
Soothing at first the gay reposing throng:
And oft he sips their bowl; or, nearly drown'd,
He, thence recovering, drives their beds among,
And scares their tender sleep, with trump pro-
found;

Then out again he flies, to wing his mazy round.

Another guest there was, of sense refin'd, Who felt each worth, for every worth he had; Serene, yet warm; humane, yet firm his mind, As little touch'd as any man's with bad: Him through their inmost walks the Muses lad, To him the sacred love of nature lent, And sometimes would he make our valley glad; When as we found he would not here be pent, To him the better sort this friendly message sent.

"Come, dwell with us! true son of virtue, come! But if, alas! we cannot thee persuade,

To lie content beneath our peaceful dome,
Ne ever more to quit our quiet glade;
Yet when at last thy toils but ill apaid

Shall dead thy fire, and damp its heavenly spark,
Thou wilt be glad to seek the rural shade,

There to indulge the Muse, and nature mark: We then a lodge for thee will rear in Hagley-Park."

Here whilom ligg'd th' Esopus of the age; But call'd by Fame, in soul ypricked deep, A noble pride restor❜d him to the stage, And rous'd him like a giant from his sleep. Ev'n from his slumbers we advantage reap: With double force th' enliven'd scene he wakes, Yet quits not nature's bounds. He knows to keep Each due decorum: now the heart he shakes, And now, with well-urg'd sense, th' enlighten'd judgment takes.

A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems;
Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain,
On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes,
Pour'd forth his unpremeditated strain:
The world forsaking with a calm disdain
Here laugh'd he careless in his easy seat;
Here quaff'd encircled with the joyous train,
Oft moralizing sage; his ditty sweet

He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat.

VOL. IV.

R

Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod, Of clerks great plenty here you mote espy. A little, round, fat, oily man of God, Was one I chiefly mark'd among the fry: He had a roguish twinkle in his eye, And shone all glittering with ungodly dew, If a tight damsel chaunc'd to trippen by; Which when observ'd, he shrunk into his mew, And straight would recollect his piety anew.

Nor be forgot a tribe, who minded nought
(Old inmates of the place) but state affairs:
They look'd, perdie, as if they deeply thought;
And on their brow sat ev'ry nation's cares.
The world by them is parcell'd out in shares,
When in the hall of smoke they congress hold,
And the sage berry sun-burnt Mocha bears
Has clear'd their inward eye: then, smoke-en-
roll'd,

Their oracles break forth mysterious as of old.

Here languid beauty kept her pale-fac'd court :
Bevies of dainty dames, of high degree,
From every quarter hither made resort;

Where, from gross mortal care and business free,
They lay, pour'd out in ease and luxury.
Or should they a vain show of work assume,
Alas! and well-a-day! what can it be?

To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom;

But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel, and loom.