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James Thomson - The Castle Of Indolence
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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 overflow 
To all that to mankind is good and dear: 
Come, Philomelus; let us instant go, 
O`erturn his bowers, and lay his castle low. 
Those men, those wretched men! who will be slaves, 
Must drink a bitter wrathful cup of woe: 
But some there be, thy song, as from their graves, 
Shall raise.’ Thrice happy he! who without rigour saves. 
Issuing forth, the knight bestrode his steed, 
Of ardent bay, and on whose front a star 
Shone blazing bright: sprung from the generous breed, 
That whirl of active day the rapid car, 
He pranced along, disdaining gate or bar. 
Meantime, the bard on milk-white palfrey rode; 
An honest sober beast, that did not mar 
His meditations, but full softly trode: 
And much they moralized as thus yfere they yode. 
They talk`d of virtue, and of human bliss. 
What else so fit for man to settle well? 
And still their long researches met in this, 
This Truth of Truths, which nothing can refel: 
‘From virtue`s fount the purest joys outwell, 
Sweet rills of thought that cheer the conscious soul; 
While vice pours forth the troubled streams of hell, 
The which, howe`er disguised, at last with dole 
Will through the tortured breast their fiery torrent roll.’ 
At length it dawn`d, that fatal valley gay, 
O`er which high wood-crown`d hills their summits rear: 
On the cool height awhile our palmers stay, 
And spite even of themselves their senses cheer; 
Then to the vizard`s wonne their steps they steer. 
Like a green isle, it broad beneath them spread, 
With gardens round, and wandering currents clear, 
And tufted groves to shade the meadow-bed, 
Sweet airs and song; and without hurry all seem`d glad. 
‘As God shall judge me, knight! we must forgive 
(The half-enraptured Philomelus cried) 
The frail good man deluded here to live, 
And in these groves his musing fancy hide. 
Ah! nought is pure. It cannot be denied, 
That virtue still some tincture has of vice, 
And vice of virtue. What should then betide, 
But that our charity be not too nice? 
Come, let us those we can, to real bliss entice.’ 
‘Ay, sicker, (quoth the knight) all flesh is frail, 
To pleasant sin and joyous dalliance bent; 
But let not brutish vice of this avail, 
And think to `scape deserved punishment. 
Justice were cruel weakly to relent; 
From Mercy`s self she got her sacred glaive: 
Grace be to those who can, and will, repent; 
But penance long, and dreary, to the slave, 
Who must in floods of fire his gross foul spirit lave.’ 
Thus, holding high discourse, they came to where 
The cursed carle was at his wonted trade; 
Still tempting heedless men into his snare, 
In witching wise, as I before have said. 
But when he saw, in goodly geer array`d, 
The grave majestic knight approaching nigh, 
And by his side the bard so sage and staid, 
His countenance fell; yet oft his anxious eye 
Mark`d them, like wily fox who roosted cock doth spy. 
Nathless, with feign`d respect, he bade give back 
The rabble rout, and welcomed them full kind; 
Struck with the noble twain, they were not slack 
His orders to obey, and fall behind. 
Then he resumed his song; and unconfined, 
Pour`d all his music, ran through all his strings: 
With magic dust their eyne he tries to blind, 
And virtue`s tender airs o`er weakness flings. 
What pity base his song who so divinely sings! 
Elate in thought, he counted them his own, 
They listen`d so intent with fix`d delight: 
But they instead, as if transmew`d to stone, 
Marvel`d he could with such sweet art unite 
The lights and shades of manners, wrong and right. 
Meantime, the silly crowd the charm devour, 
Wide pressing to the gate. Swift, on the knight 
He darted fierce, to drag him to his bower, 
Who backening shunn`d his touch, for well he knew its power. 
As in throng`d amphitheatre, of old, 
The wary Retiarius trapp`d his foe; 
E`en so the knight, returning on him bold, 
At once involved him in the Net of Woe, 
Whereof I mention made not long ago. 
Inraged at first, he scorn`d so weak a jail, 
And leap`d, and flew, and flounced to and fro; 
But when he found that nothing could avail, 
He sat him felly down, and gnaw`d his bitter nail. 
Alarm`d, the inferior demons of the place 
Raised rueful shrieks and hideous yells around; 
Black stormy clouds deform`d the welkin`s face, 
And from beneath was heard a wailing sound, 
As of infernal sprights in cavern bound; 
A solemn sadness every creature strook, 
And lightnings flash`d, and horror rock`d the ground: 
Huge crowds on crowds outpour`d, with blemish`d look, 
As if on Time`s last verge this frame of things had shook. 
Soon as the short-lived tempest was yspent, 
Steam`d from the jaws of vex`d Avernus` hole, 
And hush`d the hubbub of the rabblement, 
Sir Industry the first calm moment stole: 
‘There must, (he cried) amid so vast a shoal, 
Be some who are not tainted at the heart, 
Not poison`d quite by this same villain`s bowl: 
Come then, my bard, thy heavenly fire impart; 
Touch soul with soul, till forth the latent spirit start.’ 
The bard obey`d; and taking from his side, 
Where it in seemly sort depending hung, 
His British harp, its speaking strings he tried, 
The which with skilful touch he deftly strung, 
Till tinkling in clear symphony they rung. 
Then, as he felt the Muses come along, 
Light o`er the chords his raptured hand he flung, 
And play`d a prelude to his rising song: 
The whilst, like midnight mute, ten thousands round him throng. 
Thus, ardent, burst his strain.—‘Ye hapless race, 
Dire labouring here to smother reason`s ray, 
That lights our Maker`s image in our face, 
And gives us wide o`er earth unquestion`d sway; 
What is the adored Supreme Perfection, say?— 
What, but eternal never resting soul, 
Almighty Power, and all-directing day; 
By whom each atom stirs, the planets roll; 
Who fills, surrounds, informs, and agitates the whole. 
‘Come, to the beaming God your hearts unfold! 
Draw from its fountain life! `Tis thence, alone, 
We can excel. Up from unfeeling mould, 
To seraphs burning round the Almighty`s throne, 
Life rising still on life, in higher tone, 
Perfection forms, and with perfection bliss. 
In universal nature this clear shown, 
Not needeth proof: to prove it were, I wis, 
To prove the beauteous world excels the brute abyss. 
‘Is not the field, with lively culture green, 
A sight more joyous than the dead morass? 
Do not the skies, with active ether clean, 
And fann`d by sprightly zephyrs, far surpass 
The foul November fogs, and slumbrous mass 
With which sad Nature veils her drooping face? 
Does not the mountain stream, as clear as glass, 
Gay-dancing on, the putrid pool disgrace? 
The same in all holds true, but chief in human race. 
‘It was not by vile loitering in ease, 
That Greece obtain`d the brighter palm of art; 
That soft yet ardent Athens learn`d to please, 
To keen the wit, and to sublime the heart, 
In all supreme! complete in every part! 
It was not thence majestic Rome arose, 
And o`er the nations shook her conquering dart: 
For sluggard`s brow the laurel never grows; 
Renown is not the child of indolent Repose. 
‘Had unambitious mortals minded nought, 
But in loose joy their time to wear away; 
Had they alone the lap of dalliance sought, 
Pleased on her pillow their dull heads to lay, 
Rude nature`s state had been our state to-day; 
No cities e`er their towery fronts had raised, 
No arts had made us opulent and gay; 
With brother-brutes the human race had grazed; 
None e`er had soar`d to fame, none honour`d been, none praised. 
‘Great Homer`s song had never fired the breast 
To thirst of glory, and heroic deeds; 
Sweet Maro`s muse, sunk in inglorious rest, 
Had silent slept amid the Mincian reeds: 
The wits of modern time had told their beads, 
And monkish legends been their only strains; 
Our Milton`s Eden had lain wrapt in weeds, 
Our Shakespeare stroll`d and laugh`d with Warwick swains, 
Ne had my master Spenser charm`d his Mulla`s plains. 
‘Dumb too had been the sage historic muse, 
And perish`d all the sons of ancient fame; 
Those starry lights of virtue, that diffuse 
Through the dark depth of time their vivid flame, 
Had all been lost with such as have no name. 
Who then had scorn`d his ease for others` good? 
Who then had toil`d rapacious men to tame? 
Who in the public breach devoted stood, 
And for his country`s cause been prodigal of blood? 
‘But should to fame your hearts unfeeling be, 
If right I read, you pleasure all require: 
Then hear how best may be obtain`d this fee, 
How best enjoy`d this nature`s wide desire. 
Toil and be glad! let industry inspire 
Into your quicken`d limbs her buoyant breath! 
Who does not act is dead; absorpt entire 
In miry sloth, no pride, no joy he hath: 
O leaden-hearted men, to be in love with death! 
‘Ah! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven, 
When drooping health and spirits go amiss? 
How tasteless then whatever can be given? 
Health is the vital principle of bliss, 
And exercise of health. In proof of this, 
Behold the wretch, who slugs his life away, 
Soon swallow`d in disease`s sad abyss; 
While he whom toil has braced, or manly play, 
Has light as air each limb, each thought as clear as day. 
‘O who can speak the vigorous joys of health! 
Unclogg`d the body, unobscured the mind: 
The morning rises gay, with pleasing stealth, 
The temperate evening falls serene and kind. 
In health the wiser brutes true gladness find: 
See! how the younglings frisk along the meads, 
As May comes on, and wakes the balmy wind; 
Rampant with life, their joy all joy exceeds: 
Yet what but high-strung health this dancing pleasaunce breeds? 
‘But here, instead, is foster`d every ill, 
Which or distemper`d minds or bodies know. 
Come then, my kindred spirits! do not spill 
Your talents here: this place is but a show, 
Whose charms delude you to the den of woe. 
Come, follow me, I will direct you right, 
Where pleasure`s roses, void of serpents, grow, 
Sincere as sweet; come, follow this good knight, 
And you will bless the day that brought him to your sight. 
‘Some he will lead to courts, and some to camps; 
To senates some, and public sage debates, 
Where, by the solemn gleam of midnight lamps, 
The world is poised, and managed mighty states; 
To high discovery some, that new creates 
The face of earth; some to the thriving mart; 
Some to the rural reign, and softer fates; 
To the sweet muses some, who raise the heart: 
All glory shall be yours, all nature, and all art! 
‘There are, I see, who listen to my lay, 
Who wretched sigh for virtue, but despair: 
“All may be done, (methinks I hear them say) 
E`en death despised by generous actions fair; 
All, but for those who to these bowers repair, 
Their every power dissolved in luxury, 
To quit of torpid sluggishness the lair, 
And from the powerful arms of sloth get free: 
`Tis rising from the dead—Alas!—it cannot be!” 
‘Would you then learn to dissipate the band 
Of the huge threatening difficulties dire, 
That in the weak man`s way like lions stand, 
His soul appal, and damp his rising fire? 
Resolve, resolve, and to be men aspire. 
Exert that noblest privilege, alone, 
Here to mankind indulged; control desire: 
Let godlike reason, from her sovereign throne, 
Speak the commanding word “I will!” and it is done. 
‘Heavens! can you then thus waste, in shameful wise, 
Your few important days of trial here? 
Heirs of eternity! yborn to rise 
Through endless states of being, still more near 
To bliss approaching, and perfection clear; 
Can you renounce a fortune so sublime, 
Such glorious hopes, your backward steps to steer, 
And roll, with vilest brutes, through mud and slime? 
No! no!—Your heaven-touch`d hearts disdain the sordid crime!’ 
‘Enough! enough!’ they cried—straight, from the crowd, 
The better sort on wings of transport fly: 
As when amid the lifeless summits proud 
Of Alpine cliffs where to the gelid sky 
Snows piled on snows in wintry torpor lie, 
The rays divine of vernal Phœbus play; 
The awaken`d heaps, in streamlets from on high, 
Roused into action, lively leap away, 
Glad warbling through the vales, in their new being gay, 
Not less the life, the vivid joy serene, 
That lighted up these new created men, 
Than that which wings the exulting spirit clean, 
When, just deliver`d from this fleshly den, 
It soaring seeks its native skies agen: 
How light its essence! how unclogg`d its powers, 
Beyond the blazon of my mortal pen! 
E`en so we glad forsook these sinful bowers, 
E`en such enraptured life, such energy was ours. 
But far the greater part, with rage inflamed, 
Dire-mutter`d curses, and blasphemed high Jove: 
‘Ye sons of hate! (they bitterly exclaim`d) 
What brought you to this seat of peace and love? 
While with kind nature, here amid the grove, 
We pass`d the harmless sabbath of our time, 
What to disturb it could, fell men, emove 
Your barbarous hearts? Is happiness a crime? 
Then do the fiends of hell rule in yon Heaven sublime.’ 
‘Ye impious wretches, (quoth the knight in wrath) 
Your happiness behold!’—Then straight a wand 
He waved, an anti-magic power that hath, 
Truth from illusive falsehood to command. 
Sudden the landscape sinks on every hand; 
The pure quick streams are marshy puddles found; 
On baleful heaths the groves all blacken`d stand; 
And o`er the weedy foul abhorred ground, 
Snakes, adders, toads, each loathsome creature crawls around. 
And here and there, on trees by lightning scathed, 
Unhappy wights who loathed life yhung; 
Or, in fresh gore and recent murder bathed, 
They weltering lay; or else, infuriate flung 
Into the gloomy flood, while ravens sung 
The funeral dirge, they down the torrent roll`d: 
These, by distemper`d blood to madness stung, 
Had doom`d themselves; whence oft, when night control`d 
The world, returning hither their sad spirits howl`d. 
Meantime a moving scene was open laid; 
That lazar-house, I whilom in my lay 
Depainted have, its horrors deep display`d, 
And gave unnumber`d wretches to the day, 
Who tossing there in squalid misery lay. 
Soon as of sacred light the unwonted smile 
Pour`d on these living catacombs its ray, 
Through the drear caverns stretching many a mile, 
The sick upraised their heads, and dropp`d their woes awhile. 
‘O Heaven! (they cried) and do we once more see 
Yon blessed sun, and this green earth so fair? 
Are we from noisome damps of pesthouse free? 
And drink our souls the sweet ethereal air? 
O thou! or Knight, or God? who holdest there 
That fiend, oh keep him in eternal chains! 
But what for us, the children of despair, 
Brought to the brink of hell, what hope remains? 
Repentance does itself but aggravate our pains. 
The gentle Knight, who saw their rueful case, 
Let fall adown his silver beard some tears. 
‘Certes (quoth he) it is not e`en in grace,
To undo the past, and eke your broken years: 
Nathless, to nobler worlds repentance rears, 
With humble hope, her eye; to her is given 
A power the truly contrite heart that cheers; 
She quells the brand by which the rocks are riven; 
She more than merely softens, she rejoices Heaven. 
‘Then patient bear the sufferings you have earn`d, 
And by these sufferings purify the mind; 
Let wisdom be by past misconduct learn`d: 
Or pious die, with penitence resign`d; 
And to a life more happy and refined, 
Doubt not, you shall, new creatures, yet arise. 
Till then, you may expect in me to find 
One who will wipe your sorrow from your eyes, 
One who will soothe your pangs, and wing you to the skies.’ 
They silent heard, and pour`d their thanks in tears: 
‘For you (resumed the Knight with sterner tone) 
Whose hard dry hearts the obdurate demon sears, 
That villain`s gifts will cost you many a groan; 
In dolorous mansion long you must bemoan 
His fatal charms, and weep your stains away; 
Till, soft and pure as infant goodness grown, 
You feel a perfect change: then, who can say 
What grace may yet shine forth in Heaven`s eternal day?’ 
This said, his powerful wand he waved anew: 
Instant, a glorious angel-train descends, 
The Charities, to wit, of rosy hue; 
Sweet love their looks a gentle radiance lends, 
And with seraphic flame compassion blends. 
At once, delighted, to their charge they fly: 
When lo! a goodly hospital ascends; 
In which they bade each lenient aid be nigh, 
That could the sick-bed smooth of that sad company. 
It was a worthy edifying sight, 
And gives to human kind peculiar grace, 
To see kind hands attending day and night, 
With tender ministry, from place to place. 
Some prop the head; some, from the pallid face 
Wipe off the faint cold dews weak nature sheds; 
Some reach the healing draught: the whilst, to chase 
The fear supreme, around their soften`d beds, 
Some holy man by prayer all opening Heaven dispreds. 
Attended by a glad acclaiming train, 
Of those he rescued had from gaping hell, 
Then turn`d the Knight; and, to his hall again 
Soft-pacing, sought of peace the mossy cell: 
Yet down his cheeks the gems of pity fell, 
To see the helpless wretches that remain`d, 
There left through delves and deserts dire to yell; 
Amazed, their looks with pale dismay were stain`d, 
And spreading wide their hands they meek repentance feigned. 
But ah! their scorned day of grace was past: 
For (horrible to tell!) a desert wild 
Before them stretch`d, bare, comfortless, and vast; 
With gibbets, bones, and carcasses defiled. 
There nor trim field, nor lively culture smiled; 
Nor waving shade was seen, nor fountain fair; 
But sands abrupt on sands lay loosely piled, 
Through which they floundering toil`d with painful care, 
Whilst Phœbus smote them sore, and fired the cloudless air. 
Then, varying to a joyless land of bogs, 
The sadden`d country a grey waste appear`d; 
Where nought but putrid streams and noisome fogs 
For ever hung on drizzly Auster`s beard; 
Or else the ground, by piercing Caurus sear`d, 
Was jagg`d with frost, or heap`d with glazed snow; 
Through these extremes a ceaseless round they steer`d, 
By cruel fiends still hurried to and fro, 
Gaunt Beggary, and Scorn, with many hell-hounds moe. 
The first was with base dunghill rags yclad, 
Tainting the gale, in which they flutter`d light; 
Of morbid hue his features, sunk and sad; 
His hollow eyne shook forth a sickly light; 
And o`er his lank jawbone, in piteous plight, 
His black rough beard was matted rank and vile; 
Direful to see! a heart-appalling sight! 
Meantime foul scurf and blotches him defile; 
And dogs, where`er he went, still barked all the while. 
The other was a fell despightful fiend; 
Hell holds none worse in baleful bower below: 
By pride, and wit, and rage, and rancour, keen`d; 
Of man alike, if good or bad, the foe: 
With nose upturn`d, he always made a show 
As if he smelt some nauseous scent; his eye 
Was cold, and keen, like blast from boreal snow; 
And taunts he casten forth most bitterly. 
Such were the twain that off drove this ungodly fry. 
E`en so through Brentford town, a town of mud, 
A herd of bristly swine is prick`d along; 
The filthy beasts, that never chew the cud, 
Still grunt, and squeak, and sing their troublous song, 
And oft they plunge themselves the mire among: 
But aye the ruthless driver goads them on, 
And aye of barking dogs the bitter throng 
Makes them renew their unmelodious moan; 
Ne ever find they rest from their unresting fone.
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