"No cocks, with me, to rustic labour call, From village on to village sounding clear: To tardy swain no shrill-voiced matrons squall; No dogs, no babes, no wives, to stun your ear; No hammers thump; no horrid blacksmith sear, Ne noisy tradesmen your sweet slumbers start, With sounds that are a misery 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-natured lounging, sauntering up and down: They who are pleased themselves must always please; On others' ways they never squint a frown, Nor heed what haps in hamlet or in town: Thus, from the source of tender indolence, With milky blood the heart is overflown, Is soothed and sweeten'd by the social sense; For interest, envy, pride, and strife are banished hence. "What, what is virtue, but repose of mind, A pure ethereal calm, that knows no storm; Above the reach of wild ambition's wind, Above those passions that this world deform, And torture man, a proud malignant worm? But here, instead, soft gales of passion play, And gently stir the heart, thereby to form A quicker sense of joy; as breezes stray Across th' enlivened skies, and make them still more gay. "The best of men have ever loved repose: They hate to mingle in the filthy fray; Where the soul sours, and gradual rancour grows, Imbitter'd more from peevish day to day. Ev'n those whom Fame has lent her fairest ray, The most renown'd of worthy wights of yore, From a base world at last have stolen away: So Scipio, to the soft Cumaan shore Retiring, tasted joy he never knew before. "But if a little exercise you choose, Some zest for ease, 'tis not forbidden here. Amid the groves you may indulge the Muse, Or tend the blooms, and deck the vernal year; Or softly stealing, with your watery gear, Along the brooks, the crimson-spotted fry You may delude: the whilst, amused, you hear Now the hoarse stream, and now the zephyr's sigh, Attuned to the birds, and woodland melody. "O grievous folly! to heap up estate, To toil for what you here untoiling may obtain." He ceased. But still their trembling ears retain'd The deep vibrations of his witching song; That, by a kind of magic power, constrain'd To enter in, pell-mell, the listening throng, Heaps pour'd on heaps, and yet they slipt along, In silent ease: as when beneath the beam Of summer-moons, the distant woods among, Or by some flood all silver'd with the gleam, The soft-embodied fays through airy portal stream: By the smooth demon so it order'd was, And his alluring baits suspected han. The wise distrust the too fair spoken man. Yet through the gate they cast a wishful eye : Not to move on, perdie, is all they can; For do their very best they cannot fly, But often each way look, and often sorely sigh. When this the watchful wicked wizard saw, With sudden spring he leap'd upon them straight; And soon as touch'd by his unhallow'd paw, They found themselves within the cursed gate; Full hard to be repass'd, like that of Fate. Not stronger were of old the giant crew, Who sought to pull high Jove from regal state: Though, feeble wretch, he seem'd of sallow hue: Certes, who bides his grasp, will that encounter rue. For whomsoe'er the villain takes in hand, Their joints unknit, their sinews melt apace; As lithe they grow as any willow-wand, And of their vanish'd force remains no trace: So when a maiden fair, of modest grace, In all her buxom blooming May of charms, Is seized in some losel's hot embrace, She waxeth very weakly as she warms, Then sighing yields her up to love's delicious harms. Waked by the crowd, slow from his bench arose A comely full-spread porter, swoln with sleep: His calm, broad, thoughtless aspect breathed reAnd in sweet torpor he was plunged deep, [pose; Ne could himself from ceaseless yawning keep : While o'er his eyes the drowsy liquor ran, [peep. Through which his half-waked soul would faintly Then taking his black staff, he called his man, And roused himself as much as rouse himself he can. The lad leap'd lightly at his master's call. He was, to weet, a little roguish page, Save sleep and play who minded nought at all, Like most the untaught striplings of his age. This boy he kept each band to disengage, Garters and buckles, task for him unfit, But ill-becoming his grave personage, And which his portly paunch would not permit, So this same limber page to all performed it. Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls, Bade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes rise, Or savage Rosa dash'd, or learned Poussin drew. Each sound, too, here to languishment inclined, 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 breathed 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-tuned instrument reclined: From which, with airy flying fingers light, Beyond each mortal touch the most refined, 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 strings, 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 breathed in tender musings through the heart; And now a graver sacred strain they stole, As when seraphic hands an hymn impart : Wild-warbling nature all, above the reach of art! Such the gay splendour, the luxurious state, Of Caliphs old, who on the Tigris' shore, In mighty Bagdat, populous and great, Held their bright court, where was of ladies store; And verse, love, music, still the garland wore : When sleep was coy, the bard in waiting there, Cheer'd the lone midnight with the Muse's lore: Composing music bade his dreams be fair, And music lent new gladness to the morning air. Near the pavilions where we slept still ran Soft-tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell, And sobbing breezes sigh'd, and oft began (So work'd the wizard) wintry storms to swell, As heaven and earth they would together mell: At doors and windows, threatening seem'd to call The demons of the tempest, growling fell, Yet the least entrance found they none at all: Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure in massy hall. And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams, Raising a world of gayer tinct and grace ; O'er which were shadowy cast Elysian gleams, That play'd in waving lights, from place to place, And shed a roseate smile on nature's face. Not Titian's pencil e'er could so array, So fleece with clouds the pure ethereal space; Ne could it e'er such melting forms display. As loose on flowery beds all languishingly lay. No, fair illusions! artful phantoms, no! They were in sooth a most enchanting train, On beetling cliffs, or pent in ruins deep; They, till due time should serve, were bid far hence to keep. Ye guardian spirits, to whom man is dear, From these foul demons shield the midnight gloom: Angels of fancy and of love, be near, And o'er the blank of sleep diffuse a bloom: Evoke the sacred shades of Greece and Rome, And let them virtue with a look impart : But chief, awhile, O! lend us from the tomb Those long-lost friends for whom in love we smart, And fill with pious awe and joy-mixt woe the heart. Or are you sportive-bid the morn of youth Rise to new light, and beam afresh the days Of innocence, simplicity, and truth; To cares estranged, and manhood's thorny ways. What transport to retrace our boyish plays, Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied; 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, "Of vanity the mirror" this was call'd. Till it has quench'd his fire, and banished his pot. Straight from the filth of this low grub, behold! Comes fluttering forth a gaudy spendthrift heir, All glossy gay, enamel'd all with gold, The silly tenant of the summer-air, In folly lost, of nothing takes he care; Pimps, lawyers, stewards, harlots, flatterers vile, And thieving tradesmen him among them share: His father's ghost from limbo-lake the while, Sees this, which more damnation doth upon him pile. This globe portray'd the race of learned men, Still at their books, and turning o'er the page, Backwards and forwards: oft they snatch the pen, As if inspired, and in a Thespian rage; Then write and blot, as would your ruth engage. Why, authors, all this scrawl and scribbling sore? To lose the present, gain the future age: Praised to be when you can hear no more, And much enrich'd with fame, when useless worldly store. Then would a splendid city rise to view, The puzzling sons of party next appear'd, Than forth they various rush in mighty fret ; cares, In comes another set, and kicketh them down stairs. But what most show'd the vanity of life, Was to behold the nations all on fire, In cruel broils engaged, and deadly strife: Most Christian kings, inflamed 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 gipsies brown in summer-glades who bask. Yea, many a man perdie I could unmask, Whose desk and table make a solemn show, With tape-tied 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 involved, 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, Sauntering and slow. So had he passed many a day. Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they pass'd: 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 traversed the cerulean field, And mark'd the clouds that drove before the wind, Ten thousand glorious systems would he build, Ten thousand great ideas fill'd his mind; [hind. But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace be 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 practised Near to his bed, his dinner vile he took; [been 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. [* Paterson, the poet's friend, and the author of Arminius a tragedy.] [t Dr. Armstrong.] One day there chaunced 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 even 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 profound; Then out again he flies, to wing his mazy round. Another guest there was t, of sense refined, 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 restored him to the stage, And roused him like a giant from his sleep. Even 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-urged sense, th' enlighten'd judgment takes. [* Young John Forbes of Duncan Forbes.] Culloden, the only son of [+ Lord Lyttelton.] [ Quin, whom a quarrel with Garrick had driven temporarily off the stage.] 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 Here languid beauty kept her pale-faced 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. Their only labour was to kill the time; And labour dire it is, and weary woe. They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme ; Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go, Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow. This soon too rude an exercise they find; Straight on the couch their limbs again they throw. Where hours and hours they sighing lie reclined, And court the vapoury god soft-breathing in the [wind. Now must I mark the villany we found, But ah! too late, as shall eftsoons be shown. A place here was, deep, dreary, under ground; Where still our inmates, when unpleasing grown, Diseased, and loathsome, privily were thrown ; Far from the light of heaven, they languish'd there, Unpity'd, uttering many a bitter groan ; For of these wretches taken was no care: Fierce fiends, and hags of hell, their only nurses were. [§ Thomson himself. This stanza was written by Lord Lyttelton.] [The Rev. Patrick Murdoch, the poet's friend and biographer. His sleek, rosy visage, and roguish eye, are preserved on canvas at Culloden.] |