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,1 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.
Ilim through their inmost walks the Muses lad,
To him the sacred love of Nature lent,
And sometimes would he make our valley glad:
Whenas we found he would not here be pent,2
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 never 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' the' 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.
(4) Mr. Quin; for an agreeable view of him, see Read's Peg Woffington
E'en from his slumbers we advantage reap:
With double force the' 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 the' enlighten'd judgment takes.
A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems;1
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 carèd to repeat.
Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod,
Of clerks good plenty here you mote espy,
A little, round, fat, oily man of God
Was one I chiefly mark'd among the fry: 3
He had a roguish twinkle in his eye,
And shone all glittering with ungodly dew,
If a tight damsel chanced to trippen by;
Which when observed, 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 every 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-enroll❜d,
Their oracles break forth mysterious as of old.
(1) The first line describes himself, and the following lines of this stanza were written by a friend of the author, Lord Lyttleton.
(3) This is the Murdoch, who subsequently edited his works.
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 on hours they sighing lie reclined,
And court the vapoury god soft-breathing in the wind.
LXXIII.1
One nymph there was, methought, in bloom of May,
On whom the idle fiend glanced many a look,
In hopes to lead her down the slippery way,
To taste of Pleasure's deep, deceitful brook.
No virtues yet her gentle mind forsook;
No idle whim, no vapours fill'd her brain:
But Prudence for her youthful guide she took;
And Goodness, which no earthly vice could stain,
Dwelt in her mind: she was ne proud, I ween, or vain.
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,
Unpitied uttering many a bitter groan;
For of these wretches taken was no care:
Fierce fiends, and hags of hell, their only nurses were.
(1) This stanza is only to be found in the first edition, and is considered to be a description of Lady Lyttleton.
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 snorèd night and day;
To stir him from his trance it was not eath,2
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,
Soft-swoln and pale, here lay the Hydropsy:
Unwieldy man; with belly monstrous round,
For ever fed with watery supply;
For still he drank, and yet he still was dry.
And moping here did Hypochondria sit,
Mother of Spleen, in robes of various dye,
Who vexed was full oft with ugly fit;
And some her frantic deem'd, and some her deem'd a wit.
A lady proud she was, of ancient blood,
Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low:
She felt, or fancied in her fluttering mood,
All the diseases which the spittles know,
And sought all physic which the shops bestow,
And still new leeches and new drugs would try,
Her humour ever wavering to and fro;
For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry,
Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why.
Fast by her side a listless maiden pined,
With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings;
Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind,
Yet loved 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.
(1) These four following stanzas are by Armstrong. (2) Eath, easy.
(3) Wot, imagine.
(4) Spittles, hospitals; German, spital.
The Knight of Arts and Industry,
And his Achievements fair;
That, by this Castle's overthrow,
Secured, and crowned were.
ESCAPED the Castle of the Sire of Sin,
Ah! where shall I so sweet a dwelling find?
For all around, without, and all within,
Nothing save what delightful was and kind,
of goodness savouring and a tender mind,
E'er rose to view. But now another strain,
Of doleful note, alas! remains behind:
I now must sing of Pleasure turn'd to Pain,
And of the false enchanter Indolence complain.
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;1
But a fell tribe the' Aonian hive despoil,
As ruthless wasps oft rob the painful bee.
Thus while the laws not guard that noblest toil,
Ne for the Muses other meed decree,
They 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,
Through which Aurora shows her brightening face;
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.
(1) Swink, labour; and moil, labour.
|