Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supply'd; The woods, the mountains, and the warbling maze Of the wild brooks!-But fondly wandering wide, My Muse, resume the task that yet doth thee abide. One great amusement of our household was, Run bustling to and fro with foolish haste, But what most show'd the vanity of life, Was to behold the nations all on fire, In cruel broils engag'd, and deadly strife: Most Christian kings, inflam'd by black desire, With honourable ruffians in their hire, Cause war to rage, and blood around to pour: Of this sad work when each begins to tire, They sit them down just where they were before, Till for new scenes of woe peace shall their force restore. To number up the thousands dwelling here, An useless were, and eke an endless task; From kings, and those who at the helm appear, To gypsies brown in summer-glades who bask.) Yea, many a man, perdic, I could unmask, Whose desk and table make a solemn show, With tape-ty'd trash, and suits of fools that ask For place or pension laid in decent row; But these I passen by, with nameless numbers moe. 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 soot 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, 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, 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 behind. 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 462 THOMSON. 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 Of social glee, and wit humane, though keen, But not ev'n pleasure to excess is good: As when in prime of June a burnish'd fly, Cheer'd by the breathing bloom and vital sky, Then out again he flies, to wing his mazy round. Another guest there was, of sense refin'd, "Come, dwell with us! true son of virtue, come! Here whilom ligg'd th' Esopus of the age; A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems; Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod, Nor be forgot a tribe, who minded nought Their oracles break forth mysterious, as of old Here languid Beauty kept her pale-fac'd court: ' They lay, pour'd out in ease and luxury. loom. Unpity'd uttering many a bitter groan; Yet quits not Nature's bounds. He knows to keep Fierce fiends, and hags of Hell, their only nurses Each due decorum : now the heart he shakes, And now with well-urg'd sense th' enlighten'd judg ment takes. • Mr. Quin. were. + This character of Mr. Thomson was written by Lord Lyttelton. Alas! the change! from scenes of joy and rest, To this dark den, where Sickness toss'd alway. Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep opprest, Stretch'd on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay, Heaving his sides, and snored night and day; To stir him from his traunce it was not eath, And his half-open'd eyne he shut straightway: He led, I wot, the softest way to death, And taught withouten pain and strife to yield the breath. Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound, A lady proud she was, of ancient blood, Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why. Fast by her side a listless maiden pin'd, With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings; Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind, Yet lov'd in secret all forbidden things. And here the Tertian shakes his chilling wings; The sleepless Gout here counts the crowing cocks, A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings; Whilst Apoplexy cramm'd Intemperance knocks Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox. CANTO II. The knight of arts and industry, And his achievements fair; That by his castle's overthrow, Secur'd, and crowned were. ESCAP'D the castle of the sire of sin, Ah! where shall I so sweet a dwelling find? Is there no patron to protect the Muse, And fence for her Parnassus' barren soil? To every labour its reward accrues, And they are sure of bread who swink and moil; But a fell tribe th' Aonian hive despoil, As ruthless wasps oft rob the painful bee: Thus while the laws not guard that noblest toil, Ne for the other Muses meed decree, hey praised are alone, and starve right merrily. I care not, Fortune, what you me deny : You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, [face; Through which Aurora shows her brightening You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve: Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave : Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave. Come then, my Muse, and raise a bolder song; Come, lig no more upon the bed of sloth, Dragging the lazy languid line along, Fond to begin, but still to finish loth, Thy half-writ scrolls all eaten by the moth: Arise, and sing that generous imp of Fame, Who with the sons of softness nobly wroth, To sweep away this human lumber came, Or in a chosen few to rouse the slumbering flame. In Fairy-land there liv'd a knight of old, Now scorch'd by June, now in November steep'd, He still in woods pursued the libbard and the boar. As he one morning, long before the dawn, There, up to earn the needments of the day, Amid the green-wood shade this boy was bred, So pass'd his youthly morning, void of care, That teach to tame the soil and rule the crook; Ne did the sacred Nine disdain a gentle look. Of fertile genius him they nurtur'd well, That brace the nerves, or make the limbs alert, Successive had; but now in ruins grey They lie, to slavish sloth and tyranny a prey. To crown his toils, sir Industry then spread They lodg'd at large, and liv'd at Nature's cost Save spear, and bow, withouten other aid; Yet not the Roman steel their naked breast inay'd. He lik'd the soil, he lik'd the clement skies, He lik'd the verdant hills and flowery plains, "Be this my great, my chosen isle," he cries, "This, whilst my labours Liberty sustains, This queen of Ocean all assault disdains." Nor lik'd he less the genius of the land,To freedom apt and persevering pains, Mild to obey, and generous to command, Temper'd by forming Heaven with kindest, firms hand. Here, by degrees, his master-work arose, Whatever arts and industry can frame: Whatever finish'd Agriculture knows, Fair queen of arts! from Heaven itself who came When Eden flourished in unspotted fame: And still with her sweet Innocence we find, And tender Peace, and joys without a name, That, while they ravish, tranquillize the mind: Nature and Art, at once, delight and use c bin'd. The towns he quicken'd by mechanic arts, And bade the fervent city glow with toil; Bade social Commerce raise renowned marts, Join land to land, and marry soil to soil, Unite the Poles, and, without bloody spoil, Bring home of either Ind the gorgeous stores; Or, should despotic rage the world embroil, Bade tyrants tremble on remotest shores, [mours While o'er th' encircling deep Britannia's thunder The drooping Muses then he westward call'd, Thence from their cloister'd walks he set them free, And brought them to another Castalie, Where Isis many a famous noursling breeds; Or where old Cam soft-paces o'er the lea In pensive mood, and tunes his Doric reeds, The whilst his flocks at large the lonely shepherd feeds. The tidings reach'd to where, in quiet hall, Come, save us yet, ere ruin round us close! He walk'd his rounds, and cheer'd his blest His ardent soul, and from his couch at once he domain ! His days, the days of unstain'd nature, roll'd, Replete with peace and joy, like patriarchs of old. Witness, ye lowing herds, who gave him milk; star, Or of September moons the radiance mild. From Heaven this life ysprung, from Hell thy glories vild! Nor from this deep retirement banish'd was And woods imbrown the steep, or wave along the As nearer to his farm you made approach, But in prime vigour what can last for ay? He came, the bard, a little druid-wight, Of wither'd aspect; but his eye was keen, With sweetness mix'd. In russet brown bedight, As is his sister of the copses green, He crept along, unpromising of mien. Gross he who judges so. His soul was fair, Bright as the children of yon azure sheen. True comeliness, which nothing can impair, Dwells in the mind: all else is vanity and glare. "Come," quoth the knight, "a voice has reach'd mine ear: The demon Indolence threats overthrow |