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Like the gay birds that sung them to repose,
Content, and careless of to-morrow's fare.
Her form was fresher than the morning rose
When the dew wets its leaves ; unstained and pure,
As is the lily, or the mountain snow.
The modest virtues mingled in her eyes,
Still on the ground dejected, darting all
Their humid beams into the blooming flowers :
Or when the mournful tale her mother told,
Of what her faithless fortune promised once,

Thrilled in her thought, they, like the dewy star
'? Of evening, shone in tears. A native grace
| Sat fair-proportioned on her polished limbs,

Veiled in a simple robe, their best attire, Beyond the pomp of dress ; for loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is, when unadorned, adorned the most. Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self, Recluse amid the close-embowering woods. As in the bollow breast of Apennine, Beneath the shelter of encircling hills, A myrtle rises, far from human eye, And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild; So flourished blooming, and unseen by all, The sweet Lavinia ; till, at length, compelled By strong Necessity's supreme command, With smiling patience in her looks, she went To glean Palemon's fields. The pride of swains Palernon was, the generous, and the rich; Who led the rural life in all its joy And elegance, such as Arcadian song Transmits from ancient uncorrupted times; When tyrant custom bad not shackled man, But free to follow nature was the mode. He then, his fancy with autumnal scenes Amusing, chanced beside his reaper-train To walk, when poor Lavinia drew his eye; Unconscious of her power, and turning quick With upaffected blushes from his gaze: He saw her charming, but he saw not half The charms her downcast modesty concealed. That very moment love and chaste desire Sprung in his bosom, to himself unknown; For still the world prevailed, and its dread laugh, Which scarce the firm philosopher can scorn, Should his heart own a gleaner in the field : And thus in secret to his soul he sighed:

What pity! that so delicate a form, By beauty kindled, where enlivening sense And more than vulgar goodness seem to dwell, should be devoted to the rude embrace Of some indecent clown! She looks, methinks, Of old Acasto's line; and to my mind Recalls that patron of my happy life, From whom my liberal fortune took its rise; Now to the dust gone down ; his houses, lands, And once fair-spreading family, dissolved. Tis said that in some lone obscure retreat, Urged by remembrance sad, and decent pride, Far from those scenes which knew their better days, His aged widow and his daughter live, Whom yet my fruitless search could never find. Romantic wish! would this the daughter were !'

When, strict inquiring, from herself he found She was the same, the daughter of his friend, Of bountiful Acasto, who can speak

The mingled passions that surprised his heart, | And through his nerves in shivering transport ran?

Then blazed his smothered flame, avowed, and bold;
And as he viewed her, ardent, o'er and o'er,
Love, gratitude, and pity, wept at once.
Confused and frightened at his sudden tears,
Her rising beauties flushed a higher bloom,
As thus Palemon, passionate and just,
Poured out the pious rapture of his soul.

* And art thou, then, Acasto's dear remains ?

She, whom my restless gratitude has sought,
So long in vain? Oh heavens! the very same,
The softened image of my noble friend,
Alive his every look, his every feature,
More elegantly touched. Sweeter than Spring!
Thou sole surviving blossom from the root
That nourished up my fortune! Say, ah where,
In what sequestered desert hast thou drawn
The kindest aspect of delighted Heaven?
Into such beauty spread, and blown so fair;
Though poverty's cold wind, and crushing rain,
Beat keen and heavy on thy tender years ?
Oh let me now into a richer soil
Transplant thee safe! where vernal suns and showers
Diffuse their warmest, largest influence;
And of my garden be the pride and joy!
Ill it befits thee, oh, it ill befits
Acasto's daughter, his whose open stores,
Though vast, were little to his ample heart,
The father of a country, thus to pick
The very refuse of those harvest-fields,
Which from his bounteous friendship I enjoy.
Then throw that shameful pittance from thy hand,
But ill applied to such a rugged task;
The fields, the master, all, my fair, are thine;
If to the various blessings which thy house
Has on me lavished, thou wilt add that bliss,
That dearest bliss, the power of blessing thee!'

Here ceased the youth: yet still his speaking eye
Expressed the sacred triumph of his soul,
With conscious virtue, gratitude, and love,
Above the vulgar joy divinely raised.
Nor wanted he reply. Won by the charm
| Of goodness irresistible, and all
In sweet disorder lost, she blushed consent.
The news immediate to her mother brought,
While, pierced with anxious thought, she pined away
The lonely moments for Lavinia's fate;
Amazed, and scarce believing what she heard,
Joy seized her withered veins, and one bright gleam
Of setting life shone on her evening hours:
Not less enraptured than the happy pair;
Who flourished long in tender bliss, and reared
A numerous offspring, lovely like themselves,
And good, the grace of all the country round.

[4 Winter Landscape.] Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends, | At first thin-wavering, till at last the flakes Fall broad and wide, and fast, dimming the day With a continual flow. The cherished fields | Put on their winter robe of purest white: 'Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts Along the mazy current. Low the woods Bow their hoar head ; and ere the languid sun Faint from the west, emits his evening ray ; Earth’s universal face, deep hid, and chill, Is one wide dazzling waste, that buries wide The works of man. Drooping, the labourer-ox Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around The winnowing store, and claim the little boon Which Providence assigns them. One alone, The red-breast, sacred to the household gods, Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, | In joyless tields and thorny thickets, leaves His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first Against the window beats ; then, brisk, alights On the warm hearth ; then hopping o'er the floor, Eyes all the smiling family askance, And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is : Till more familiar grown, the table crumbs | Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds

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Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse ;
Though timorous of heart, and hard beset

Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life,
By death in various forins, dark snares and dogs, They furnish matter for the tragic muse.
And more unpitying men, the garden seeks,

Even in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell, Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kine With friendship, peace, and contemplation joined, Eye the bleak heaven, and next, the glistening earth, How many, racked with honest passions, droop With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad dispersed, In deep retired distress. How many stand Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow. * Around the deathbed of their dearest friends.

As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce And point the parting anguish. Thought fond man All winter drives along the darkened air,

Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, In his own loose rerolving fields the swain

That one incessant struggle render life, Disastered stands ; sees other hills ascend,

One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, Of unknown joyless brow, and other scenes,

Vice in his high career would stand appalled, Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain;

And heedless rambling impulse learn to think; Nor finds the river nor the forest, hid

The consious heart of charity would warm, Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on

And her wide wish benevolence dilate; From hill to dale, still more and more astray,

The social tear would rise, the social sigh; Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of Refining still, the social passions work.

home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth

Hymn on the Seasons. In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul ! What black despair, what horror, fills his heart ! | These, as they change, Almighty Father, these When for the dusky spot which fancy feigned, Are but the varied God. The rolling year His tufted cottage rising through the snow,

Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring He meets the roughness of the middle waste,

Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. Far from the track and blessed abode of man; Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm; While round him night resistless closes fast,

Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; And every tempest howling o'er his head,

And every sense and every heart is joy. Renders the savage wilderness more wild.

Then comes thy glory in the Summer months, Then throng the busy shapes into his mind,

With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun Of covered pits, unfathomably deep,

Shoots full perfection through the swelling year: A dire descent! beyond the power of frost;

And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks, Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge

And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, Smoothed up with snow; and what is land unknown, By brooks and grores in hollow-whispering gales. What water of the still unfrozen spring,

Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined, In the loose marsh or solitary lake,

And spreads a common feast for all that lives. Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. In Winter awful thou ! with clouds and storms These check his fearful steps, and down he sinks Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled, Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift,

Majestic darkness ! On the whirlwind's wing Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death,

Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, Mixed with the tender anguish nature shoots

And humblest nature with thy northern blast. Through the wrung bosom of the dying man,

Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine, His wife, his children, and his friends, unseen.

Deep-felt, in these appear! a simple train In vain for him the officious wife prepares

Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, The fire fair blazing, and the vestinent warm :

Such beauty and beneficence combined ; In vain his little children, peeping out

Shade unperceived, so softening into shade; Into the mingling storm, demand their sire

And all so forming a harmonious whole, With tears of artless innocence. Alas!

That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. Nor wife nor children more shall he behold,

But wandering oft, with rude unconscioua gaze, Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve

Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand The deadly winter seizes, shuts up sense,

That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; And o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold,

Works in the secret deep; shoots steaming thence Lays him along the snows a stiffened corse,

The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring; Stretched out, and bleaching on the northern blast. Flings from the sun direct the flaming day;

Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth, (Benevolent Reflections, from Winter.']

And, as on earth this grateful change revolves,

With transport touches all the springs of life.
Ah little think the gay licentious proud,

Nature, attend! join, every living soul
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround; Beneath the spacious teniple of the sky,
They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, In adoration join; and ardent raise
And wanton, often cruel, riot waste;

One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales,
Ah little think they, wbile they dance along, Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes.
How many feel, this very moment, death

Oh talk of Him in solitary glooms, And all the sad variety of pain.

Where o'er the rock the scarcely waving pine How many sink in the devouring flood,

Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. Or more devouring flame. How many bleed,

And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, By shameful variance betwixt man and man.

Who shake the astonished world, lift high to heaven How many pine in want and dungeon glooms; The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. Shut from the common air, and common use

His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills ; Of their own limbs. How many drink the cup And let me catch it as I muse along. Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread

Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; Of misery. Sore pierced by wintry winds,

Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze How many shrink into the sordid hut

Along the vale; and thou majestic main, Of cheerless poverty. How many shake

A secret world of wonders in thyself, With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,

| Sound His stupendous praise, whose greater voice

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Or bids you roar, or bids your roaring fall.

Commoved around, in gathering eddies play; So roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, Nearer and nearer still they darkening come, In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun exalts,

Till with the general all-involving storm
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. Swept up, the whole continuous wilds arise ;
Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave to Him;

And by their noon-day fount dejected thrown,
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, Or sunk at night in sad disastrous sleep,
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon.

Beneath descending hills, the caravan
Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep

Is buried deep. In Cairo's crowded streets Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams;

The impatient merchant, wondering, waits in vain, Ye constellations, while your angels strike,

And Mecca saddens at the long delay.
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre.
Great source of day! blest image here below

[The Siberian Exile.]
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide,
From world to world, the vital ocean round,

Our infant winter sinks On nature write with every beam His praise.

Divested of his grandeur, should our eye The thunder rolls: be hushed the prostrate world, Astonished shoot into the frigid zone; While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn.

Where for relentless months continual night Bleat out afresh ye hills; ye mossy rocks

Holds o'er the glittering waste her starry reign. Retain the sound; the broad responsive low,

There, through the prison of unbounded wilds, Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns,

Barred by the hand of nature from escape, And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come.

Wide roams the Russian exile. Nought around Ye woodlands, all awake; a boundless song

Strikes his sad eye, but deserts lost in snow; Burst from the groves; and when the restless day, And heavy-loaded groves; and solid floods Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep,

That stretch athwart the solitary waste Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm

Their icy horrors to the frozen main; The listening shades, and teach the night His praise.

And cheerless towns far distant, never blessed
Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles;

Save when its annual course the caravan
At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all, Bends to the golden coast of rich Cathay.
Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast,
Assembled men to the deep organ join

[Pestilence at Carthagena.]
The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear,
At solemn pauses, through the swelling base;

Wasteful, forth And, as each mingling flame increases each,

Walks the dire power of pestilent disease. In one united ardour rise to heaven.

A thousand hideous fiends her course attend, Or if you rather choose the rural shade,

Sick nature blasting, and to heartless wo
And find a fane in every sacred grove,

And feeble desolation casting down
There let the shepherd's lute, the virgin's lay, The towering hopes and all the pride of man.
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre,

Such as of late at Carthagena quenched
Still "sing the God of seasons as they roll.

The British fire. You, gallant Vernon, saw For me, when I forget the darling theme,

The miserable scene; you, pitying, saw Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray

To infant weakness sunk the warrior's arm; Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams, Saw the deep racking pang, the ghastly form, Or Winter rises in the blackening east

The lip pale quivering, and the beamless eye Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, No more with ardour bright; you heard the groans And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat.

Of agonising ships, from shore to shore; Should fate command me to the farthest verge Heard, nightly plunged amid the sullen waves, Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, The frequent corse ; while on each other fixed Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun

In sad presage, the blank assistants seemed
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam

Silent to ask whom Fate would next demand.
Flames on the Atlantic isles, 'tis nought to me;
Since God is ever present, ever felt,

(From the Castle of Indolence.']
In the void waste as in the city full;
And where He vital breathes, there must be joy. O mortal man, who livest here by toil,
When even at last the solemn hour shall come,

Do not complain of this thy hard estate;
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,

That like an emmet thou must ever moil, I cheerful will obey; there with new powere,

Is a sad sentence of an ancient date; Will rising wonders sing. I cannot go

And, certes, there is for it reason great; Where universal love not smiles around,

For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns;

And curse thy star, and early drudge and late, From seerning evil still educing good,

Withouten that would come a heavier bale, And better thence again, and better still,

Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. In infinite progression. But I lose

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, Myself in Him, in light ineffable !

With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, Come, then, expressive silence, muse His praise.

A most enchanting wizard did abide,

Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. [The Caravan of Mecca.]

It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground:

And there a season atween June and May,
Breathed hot

Half pranked with spring, with summer half imFrom all the boundless furnace of the sky,

browned, And the wide glittering waste of burning sand,

A listless climate made, where, sooth to say,
A suffocating wind the pilgrim smites
With instant death. Patient of thirst and toil,

No living wight could work, ne cared even for play. Son of the desert ! e'en the camel feels,

Wag nought around but images of rest : Shot through his withered heart, the fiery blast. Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between ; Or from the black-red ether, bursting broad,

And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest, Sallies the sudden whirlwind. Straight the sands | From poppies breathed ; and beds of pleasant green, Where never yet was creeping creature seen.

Outcast of nature, man! the wretched thrall
Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets played, Of bitter dropping sweat, of sweltry pain,
And hurled everywhere their waters sheen:

Of cares that eat away thy heart with gall,
That, as they bickered through the sunny glade, And of the vices, an inhuman train,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur That all proceed from savage thirst of gain:
made.

For when hard-hearted Interest first began

To poison earth, Astræa left the plain;
Joined to the prattle of the purling rills,

Guile, violence, and murder, seized on man,
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills,

And, for soft milky streams, with blood the rivers ran! And vacant shepherds piping in the dale:

Come, ye who still the cumbrous load of life And now and then sweet Philomel would wail,

Push hard up hill; but as the farthest steep Or stock-doves 'plain amid the forest deep,

You trust to gain, and put an end to strife, That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale;

Down thunders back the stone with mighty sweep, And still a coil the grasshopper did keep;

And hurls your labours to the valleys deep, Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. For ever vain; come, and, withouten fee,

I in oblivion will your sorrows steep, Full in the passage of the vale above,

Your cares, your toils, will steep you in a sea A sable, silent, solemn forest stood,

Of full delight: oh come, ye weary wights, to me! Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move, As Idlesse fancied in her dreaming mood :

With me, you need not rise at early dawn, And up the hills, on either side, a wood

To pass the joyless day in various stounds; Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro,

Or, louting low, on upstart fortune fawn, Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood;

And sell fair honour for some paltry pounds; And where this valley winded out below,

Or through the city take your dirty rounds, The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard,

To cheat, and dun, and lie, and visit pay, to flow.

Now flattering base, now giving secret wounds:

Or prowl in human courts of law for human prey, A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was,

In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad highway.
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye:
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,

No cocks, with me, to rustic labour call,

From village on to village sounding clear:
For ever flushing round a summer sky:
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly

To tardy swain no shrill-voiced matrons squall;

No dogs, no babes, no wives, to stun your ear;
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast,
And the calm pleasures, always hovered nigh;

No hammers thump ; no horrid blacksmith fear: But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest,

No noisy tradesmen your sweet slumbers start, Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest.

With sounds that are a misery to hear:

But all is calm, as would delight the heart The landskip such, inspiring perfect ease,

Of Sybarite of old, all nature, and all art. Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight)

Here nought but candour reigns, indulgent ease, Close hid his castle mid embowering trees,

Good-natured lounging, sauntering up and down: That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright,

They who are pleased themselves must always please; And made a kind of checkered day and night.

On others' ways they never squint a frown, Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate,

Nor heed what haps in hamlet or in town: Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight

Thus, from the source of tender indolence, Was placed ; and to his lute, of cruel fate,

With milky blood the heart is overflown, And labour harsh, complained, lamenting man's

Is soothed and sweetened by the social sense, estate.

For interest, envy, pride, and strife, are banished hence. Thither continual pilgrims crowded still,

What, what is virtue, but repose of mind,
From all the roads of earth that pass there by; A pure ethereal calm, that knows no storm;
For, as they chanced to breathe on neighbouring hill, Above the reach of wild ambition's wind,
The freshness of this valley smote their eye,

Above the passions that this world deform,
And drew them ever and anon more nigh;

And torture man, a proud malignant worm? Till clustering round the enchanter false they hung, But here, instead, soft gales of passion play, Ymolten with his syren melody;

And gently stir the heart, thereby to form While o'er the enfeebling lute his hand he flung, 1 A quicker sense of joy; as breezes stray And to the trembling chords these tempting verses Across the enlivened skies, and make them still more sung:

gay. Behold! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold!

The best of men have ever loved repose : See all but man with unearned pleasure gay:

They hate to mingle in the filthy fray; See her bright robes the butterfly unfold,

Where the soul sours, and gradual rancour grows, Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May! Imbittered more from peevish day to day. What youthful bride can equal her array?

Even those whom Fame has lent her fairest ray, Who can with her for easy pleasure vie ?

The most renowned of worthy wights of yore, From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray, From a base world at last have stolen away: From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly,

So Scipio, to the soft Cumæan shore (s all she has to do beneath the radiant sky.

Retiring, tasted joy he never knew before. Behold the merry minstrels of the morn,

But if a little exercise you choose, The swarming songsters of the careless grove,

Some zest for ease, 'tis not forbidden here. Ten thousand throats ! that from the flowering thorn, Amid the groves you may indulge the muse, Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love, Or tend the blooms, and deck the vernal year; Such grateful kindly raptures them emove :

Or softly stealing, with your watery gear, They neither plough, nor sow; ne, fit for flail, Along the brook, the crimson-spotted fry E’er to the barn the nodding sheaves they drove; You may delude; the whilst, amused, you hear Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale,

Now the hoarse stream, and now the zephyr's sigh, Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the vale. Attuned to the birds, and woodland melody.

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Oh, grievous folly ! to heap up estate,

The pride of Turkey and of Persia land? Losing the days you see beneath the sun ;

Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread, When, sudden, comes blind unrelenting fate,

And couches stretched around in seemly band; And gives the untasted portion you have won,

And endless pillows rise to prop the head; With ruthless toil, and many a wretch undone, So that each spacious room was one full-swelling bed. To those who mock you gone to Pluto's reign, There with sad ghosts to pine, and shadows dun:

And everywhere huge covered tables stood, But sure it is of vanities most vain,

With wines high flavoured and rich viands crowned ; To toil for what you here untoiling may obtain.'

Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food

On the green bosom of this earth are found,
He ceased. But still their trembling cars retained And all old ocean genders in his round;
The deep vibrations of his 'witching song;

Some hand unseen these silently displayed,
That, by a kind of magic power, constrained

Even undemanded by a sign or sound; To enter in, pell-mell, the listening throng,

You need but wish, and, instantly obeyed, Heaps poured on heaps, and yet they slipped along, Fair ranged the dishes rose, and thick the glasses In silent ease; as when beneath the beam

played. Of summer-moons, the distant woods among, Or by some flood all silvered with the gleam,

The rooms with costly tapestry were hung,

Where was inwoven many a gentle tale; The soft-embodied fays through airy portal stream.

Such as of old the rural poets sung,

Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale: Waked by the crowd, slow from his bench arose Reclining lovers, in the lonely dale, A comely full-spread porter, swollen with sleep; Poured forth at large the sweetly-tortured heart; His calm, broad, thoughtless aspect breathed repose; Or, sighing tender passion, swelled the gale, And in sweet torpor he was plunged deep,

And taught charmed echo to resound their smart; Ne could himself from ceaseless yawning keep; While flocks, woods, streams, around, repose and peace While o'er his eyes the drowsy liquor ran,

impart. Through which his half-waked soul would faintly

Those pleased the most, where, by a cunn.ng hand, peep, Then taking his black staff, he called his man,

Depainted was the patriarchal age; And roused himself as much as rouse himself he can.

What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land,

And pastured on from verdant stage to stage, The lad leaped lightly at his master's call.

Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage. He was, to weet, a little roguish page,

Toil was not then. Of nothing took they heed, Save sleep and play who minded nought at all, But with wild beasts the sylvan war to wage, Like most the untaught striplings of his age.

And o’er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed ; This boy be kept each band to disengage,

Blest sons of nature they! true golden age indeed! Garters and buckles, task for him unfit, But ill-becoming his grave personage,

Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls, And which his portly paunch would not permit,

Bade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes rise, So this same limber page to all performed it.

Or autumn's varied shades imbrown the walls;

Now the black tempest strikes the astonished eyes, Meantime the master-porter wide displayed

Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies; Great store of caps, of slippers, and of gowns;

The trembling sun now plays o'er ocean blue, Wherewith he those that entered in, arrayed

And now rude mountains frown amid the skies; Loose, as the breeze that plays along the downs, Whate'er Lorraine light-touched with softening hue, And waves the summer-woods when evening frowns. Or savage Rosa dashed, or learned Poussin drew. Oh fair undress, best dress! it checks no vein, But every flowing limb in pleasure drowns,

A certain music, never known before, And heightens case with grace. This done, right fain

Here lulled the pensive melancholy mind,
Sir porter sat him down, and turned to sleep again.

Full easily obtained. Behoves no more,
But sidelong, to the gently-waving wind,

To lay the well-tuned instrument reclined ;
Strait of these endless numbers, swarming round,

From which with airy flying fingers light, As thick as idle motes in sunny ray,

Beyond each mortal touch the most refined, Not one eftsoons in view was to be found,

The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight; But every man strolled off his own glad way, Whence, with just cause, the harp of Æolus it Wide o'er this ample court's blank area,

hight. With all the lodges that thereto pertained ; No living creature could be seen to stray ;

Ah me! what hand can touch the string so fine ? While solitude and perfect silence reigned:

Who up the lofty diapason roll Bo that to think you dreamt you almost was constrained.

Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine,

Then let them down again into the soul ? As when a shepherd of the Hebrid isles,

Now rising love they fanned ; now pleasing dole Placed far amid the melancholy main

They breathed, in tender musings, through the heart; (Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,

And now a graver sacred strain they stole, Or that aërial beings sometimes deign

As when seraphic hands a hymn impart: To stand embodied to our senses plain),

Wild warbling nature all, above the reach of art! Sees on the naked hill, or valley low, The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain,

Such the gay splendour, the luxurious state A vast assembly moving to and fro;

Of Caliphs old, who on the Tigris' shore,
Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.

In mighty Bagdad, populous and great,
Held their bright court, where was of ladies store;

And verse, love, music, still the garland wore; The doors, that knew no shrill alarming bell,

When sleep was coy, the bard in waiting ther: Ne cursed knocker plied by villain's hand,

Cheered the lone midnight with the muse's lore; Self-opened into halls, where, who can tell

Composing music bade his dreams be fair, What elegance and grandeur wide expand,

| And music lent new gladness to the morning air.

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