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James Thomson - The Castle Of Indolence
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The castle hight of Indolence, 
And its false luxury; 
Where for a little time, alas! 
We lived right jollily. 

O mortal man, who livest here by toil, 
Do not complain of this thy hard estate; 
That like an emmet thou must ever moil, 
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date: 
And, certes, there is for it reason great; 
For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, 
And curse thy star, and early drudge and late; 
Withouten that would come a heavier bale, 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. 
In lowly dale, fast by a river`s side, 
With woody hill o`er hill encompass`d round, 
A most enchanting wizard did abide, 
Than whom a fiend more fell is no where found. 
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground; 
And there a season atween June and May, 
Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrown`d, 
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, 
No living wight could work, ne cared even for play. 
Was nought around but images of rest:  
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between; 
And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest, 
From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green, 
Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
Meantime, unnumber`d glittering streamlets play`d, 
And hurled every where their waters sheen; 
That, as they bicker`d through the sunny glade, 
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. 
Join`d to the prattle of the purling rills 
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, 
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills, 
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale: 
And, now and then, sweet Philomel would wail, 
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep, 
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; 
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep; 
Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. 
Full in the passage of the vale, above, 
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood; 
Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move, 
As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood: 
And up the hills, on either side, a wood 
Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro, 
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; 
And where this valley winded out, below, 
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. 
A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
For ever flushing round a summer-sky: 
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly 
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, 
And the calm pleasures always hover`d nigh; 
But whate`er smack`d of noyance, or unrest, 
Was far, far off expell`d from this delicious nest. 
The landscape such, inspiring perfect ease, 
Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight) 
Close-hid his castle mid embowering trees, 
That half shut out the beams of Phœbus bright, 
And made a kind of checker`d day and night; 
Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate, 
Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight 
Was placed; and to his lute, of cruel fate 
And labour harsh, complain`d, lamenting man`s estate. 
Thither continual pilgrims crowded still, 
From all the roads of earth that pass there by: 
For, as they chaunced to breathe on neighbouring hill, 
The freshness of this valley smote their eye, 
And drew them ever and anon more nigh; 
Till clustering round the enchanter false they hung, 
Ymolten with his syren melody; 
While o`er the enfeebling lute his hand he flung, 
And to the trembling chords these tempting verses sung; 
‘Behold! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold! 
See all, but man, with unearn`d pleasure gay: 
See her bright robes the butterfly unfold, 
Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May! 
What youthful bride can equal her array? 
Who can with her for easy pleasure vie? 
From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray, 
From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly, 
Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. 
‘Behold the merry minstrels of the morn, 
The swarming songsters of the careless grove, 
Ten thousand throats! that, from the flowering thorn, 
Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love, 
Such grateful kindly raptures them emove: 
They neither plough, nor sow; ne, fit for flail, 
E`er to the barn the nodden sheaves they drove; 
Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, 
Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the vale. 
‘Outcast of nature, man! the wretched thrall 
Of bitter dropping sweat, of sweltry pain, 
Of cares that eat away the heart with gall, 
And of the vices, an inhuman train, 
That all proceed from savage thirst of gain: 
For when hard-hearted interest first began 
To poison earth, Astræa left the plain; 
Guile, violence, and murder seized on man, 
And, for soft milky streams, with blood the rivers ran. 
‘Come, ye, who still the cumbrous load of life 
Push hard up hill; but as the furthest steep 
You trust to gain, and put an end to strife, 
Down thunders back the stone with mighty sweep, 
And hurls your labours to the valley deep, 
For ever vain: come, and withouten fee, 
I in oblivion will your sorrows steep, 
Your cares, your toils; will steep you in a sea 
Of full delight: O come, ye weary wights, to me! 
‘With me, you need not rise at early dawn, 
To pass the joyless day in various stounds; 
Or, louting low, on upstart fortune fawn, 
And sell fair honour for some paltry pounds; 
Or through the city take your dirty rounds, 
To cheat, and dun, and lie, and visit pay, 
Now flattering base, now giving secret wounds; 
Or prowl in courts of law for human prey, 
In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad highway. 
‘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 tradesman 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 sooth`d and sweeten`d by the social sense; 
For interest, envy, pride, and strife are banish`d 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 the enliven`d 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. 
E`en 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 Cumæan 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, 
Losing the days you see beneath the sun; 
When, sudden, comes blind unrelenting fate, 
And gives the untasted portion you have won 
With ruthless toil, and many a wretch undone, 
To those who mock you, gone to Pluto`s reign, 
There with sad ghosts to pine, and shadows dun: 
But sure it is of vanities most vain, 
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 here his baneful bounty first began: 
Though some there were who would not further pass, 
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 repose; 
And in sweet torpor he was plunged deep, 
Ne could himself from ceaseless yawning keep; 
While o`er his eyes the drowsy liquor ran, 
Through which his half-waked soul would faintly peep: 
Then taking his black staff, he call`d 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. 
Meantime, the master-porter wide display`d 
Great store of caps, of slippers, and of gowns; 
Wherewith he those who enter`d in array`d 
Loose, as the breeze that plays along the downs, 
And waves the summer-woods when evening frowns: 
O fair undress, best dress! it checks no vein, 
But every flowing limb in pleasure drowns, 
And heightens ease with grace. This done, right fain, 
Sir porter sat him down, and turn`d to sleep again. 
Thus easy robed, they to the fountain sped 
That in the middle of the court up-threw 
A stream, high spouting from its liquid bed, 
And falling back again in drizzly dew; 
There each deep draughts, as deep he thirsted, drew; 
It was a fountain of nepenthe rare; 
Whence, as Dan Homer sings, huge pleasance grew, 
And sweet oblivion of vile earthly care; 
Fair gladsome waking thoughts, and joyous dreams more fair. 
This right perform`d, all inly pleased and still, 
Withouten tromp, was proclamation made: 
‘Ye sons of Indolence, do what you will; 
And wander where you list, through hall or glade; 
Be no man`s pleasure for another staid; 
Let each as likes him best his hours employ, 
And cursed be he who minds his neighbour`s trade! 
Here dwells kind ease and unreproving joy: 
He little merits bliss who others can annoy.’ 
Straight of these endless numbers, swarming round, 
As thick as idle motes in sunny ray, 
Not one eftsoons in view was to be found, 
But every man stroll`d off his own glad way, 
Wide o`er this ample court`s blank area, 
With all the lodges that thereto pertain`d, 
No living creature could be seen to stray; 
While solitude, and perfect silence reign`d; 
So that to think you dreamt you almost was constrain`d. 
As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles, 
Placed far amid the melancholy main, 
(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles; 
Or that aërial beings sometimes deign 
To stand, embodied, to our senses plain) 
Sees on the naked hill, or valley low, 
The whilst in ocean Phœbus dips his wain, 
A vast assembly moving to and fro: 
Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show. 
Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound! 
Whose soft dominion o`er this castle sways, 
And all the widely silent places round, 
Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays 
What never yet was sung in mortal lays. 
But how shall I attempt such arduous string? 
I who have spent my nights, and nightly days, 
In this soul-deadening place loose-loitering: 
Ah! how shall I for this uprear my moulted wing? 
Come on, my muse, nor stoop to low despair, 
Thou imp of Jove, touch`d by celestial fire! 
Thou yet shalt sing of war, and actions fair, 
Which the bold sons of Britain will inspire; 
Of ancient bards thou yet shalt sweep the lyre; 
Thou yet shalt tread in tragic pall the stage, 
Paint love`s enchanting woes, the hero`s ire, 
The sage`s calm, the patriot`s noble rage, 
Dashing corruption down through every worthless age. 
The doors, that knew no shrill alarming bell, 
Ne cursed knocker plied by villain`s hand, 
Self-open`d into halls, where, who can tell 
What elegance and grandeur wide expand; 
The pride of Turkey and of Persia land? 
Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread, 
And couches stretch`d around in seemly band; 
And endless pillows rise to prop the head; 
So that each spacious room was one full-swelling bed; 
And every where huge cover`d tables stood, 
With wines high-flavour`d and rich viands crown`d; 
Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food 
On the green bosom of this earth are found, 
And all old ocean `genders in his round: 
Some hand unseen these silently display`d, 
Even undemanded by a sign or sound; 
You need but wish, and, instantly obey`d, 
Fair ranged the dishes rose, and thick the glasses play`d. 
Here freedom reign`d, without the least alloy; 
Nor gossip`s tale, nor ancient maiden`s gall, 
Nor saintly spleen durst murmur at our joy, 
And with envenom`d tongue our pleasures pall. 
For why? there was but one great rule for all; 
To wit, that each should work his own desire, 
And eat, drink, study, sleep, as it may fall, 
Or melt the time in love, or wake the lyre, 
And carol what, unbid, the muses might inspire. 
The rooms with costly tapestry were hung, 
Where was inwoven many a gentle tale; 
Such as of old the rural poets sung, 
Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale: 
Reclining lovers, in the lonely dale, 
Pour`d forth at large the sweetly tortured heart; 
Or, sighing tender passion, swell`d the gale, 
And taught charm`d echo to resound their smart; 
While flocks, woods, streams around, repose and peace impart. 
Those pleased the most, where, by a cunning hand, 
Depainted was the patriarchal age; 
What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land, 
And pastured on from verdant stage to stage, 
Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage. 
Toil was not then: of nothing took they heed, 
But with wild beasts the silvan war to wage, 
And o`er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed: 
Bless`d sons of nature they! true golden age indeed! 
Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls, 
Bade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes rise, 
Or Autumn`s varied shades imbrown the walls: 
Now the black tempest strikes the astonish`d eyes; 
Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies; 
The trembling sun now plays o`er ocean blue, 
And now rude mountains frown amid the skies; 
Whate`er Lorraine light-touch`d with softening hue, 
Or savage Rosa dash`d, or learned Poussin drew. 
Each sound too here to languishment inclined, 
Lull`d the weak bosom, and induced ease: 
Aërial 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 string so fine? 
Who up the lofty diapasan 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, thro` the heart; 
And now a graver sacred strain they stole, 
As when seraphic hands a hymn impart: 
Wild warbling nature all, above the reach of art! 
Such the gay splendour, the luxurious state, 
Of Caliphs old, who on the Tygris` 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! 
My Muse will not attempt your fairy land: 
She has no colours that like you can glow: 
To catch your vivid scenes too gross her hand. 
But sure it is, was ne`er a subtler band 
Than these same guileful angel-seeming sprights, 
Who thus in dreams voluptuous, soft, and bland, 
Pour`d all the Arabian heaven upon our nights, 
And bless`d them oft besides with more refined delights. 
They were, in sooth, a most enchanting train, 
Even feigning virtue; skilful to unite 
With evil good, and strew with pleasure pain. 
But for those fiends, whom blood and broils delight; 
Who hurl the wretch, as if to hell outright, 
Down down black gulfs, where sullen waters sleep, 
Or hold him clambering all the fearful night 
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, a while, O! lend us from the tomb 
Those long lost friends for whom in love we smart, 
And fill with pious awe and joy-mix`d 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, 
In a huge crystal magic globe to spy, 
Still as you turn`d it, all things that do pass 
Upon this ant-hill earth; where constantly 
Of idly busy men the restless fry 
Run bustling to and fro with foolish haste, 
In search of pleasures vain that from them fly, 
Or which, obtain`d, the caitiffs dare not taste:— 
When nothing is enjoy`d, can there be greater waste? 
‘Of vanity the mirror,’ this was call`d: 
Here, you a muckworm of the town might see, 
At his dull desk, amid his ledgers stall`d, 
Eat up with carking care and penury; 
Most like to carcase parch`d on gallow-tree. 
‘A penny saved is a penny got:’ 
Firm to this scoundrel maxim keepeth he, 
Ne of its rigour will he bate a jot, 
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 pourtray`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, 
With carts, and cars, and coaches roaring all: 
Wide-pour`d abroad behold the giddy crew: 
See how they dash along from wall to wall! 
At every door, hark how they thundering call! 
Good lord! what can this giddy rout excite? 
Why, on each other with fell tooth to fall; 
A neighbour`s fortune, fame, or peace, to blight, 
And make new tiresome parties for the coming night. 
The puzzling sons of party next appear`d, 
In dark cabals and nightly juntos met; 
And now they whisper`d close, now shrugging rear`d 
The important shoulder; then, as if to get 
New light, their twinkling eyes were inward set. 
No sooner Lucifer recalls affairs, 
Than forth they various rush in mighty fret; 
When lo! push`d up to power, and crown`d their 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, 
Then 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, 
A 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, 
Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound; 
Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began, 
Amid the broom he bask`d him on the ground, 
Where the wild thyme and camomile are found: 
There would he linger, till the latest ray 
Of light sat trembling on the welkin`s bound; 
Then homeward through the twilight shadows 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 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; 
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 
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 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 chanced 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 e`en pleasure to excess is good: 
What most elates, then sinks the soul as low: 
When springtide joy pours in with copious flood, 
The higher still the exulting billows flow, 
The further 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, he kept in gay uproar 
Our madden`d castle all, the 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, 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; 
Whenas 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 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. 
Even 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; 
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 cared 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: 
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 parcel`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. 
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 shew 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.
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. 
Alas! the change! from scenes of joy and rest, 
To this dark den, where sickness toss`d alway. 
Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep oppress`d, 
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, 
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 leaches 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.

CANTO II.

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; 
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. 
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 loath, 
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 lived a knight of old, 
Of feature stern, Selvaggio well yclep`d, 
A rough unpolish`d man, robust and bold, 
But wondrous poor: he neither sow`d nor reap`d, 
Ne stores in summer for cold winter heap`d; 
In hunting all his days away he wore; 
Now scorch`d by June, now in November steep`d, 
Now pinch`d by biting January sore, 
He still in woods pursued the libbard and the boar. 
As he one morning, long before the dawn, 
Prick`d through the forest to dislodge his prey, 
Deep in the winding bosom of a lawn, 
With wood wild fringed, he mark`d a taper`s ray, 
That from the beating rain, and wintry fray, 
Did to a lonely cot his steps decoy; 
There, up to earn the needments of the day, 
He found dame Poverty, nor fair nor coy: 
Her he compress`d, and fill`d her with a lusty boy. 
Amid the greenwood shade this boy was bred, 
And grew at last a knight of muchel fame, 
Of active mind and vigorous lustyhed, 
The Knight of Arts and Industry by name: 
Earth was his bed, the boughs his roof did frame; 
He knew no beverage but the flowing stream; 
His tasteful well earn`d food the sylvan game, 
Or the brown fruit with which the woodlands teem: 
The same to him glad summer, or the winter breme. 
So pass`d his youthly morning, void of care, 
Wild as the colts that through the commons run: 
For him no tender parents troubled were, 
He of the forest seem`d to be the son, 
And, certes, had been utterly undone; 
But that Minerva pity of him took, 
With all the gods that love the rural wonne, 
That teach to tame the soil and rule the crook; 
Ne did the sacred Nine disdain a gentle look. 
Of fertile genius him they nurtured well, 
In every science, and in every art, 
By which mankind the thoughtless brutes excel, 
That can or use, or joy, or grace impart, 
Disclosing all the powers of head and heart: 
Ne were the goodly exercises spared, 
That brace the nerves, or make the limbs alert, 
And mix elastic force with firmness hard: 
Was never knight on ground mote be with him compared. 
Sometimes, with early morn, he mounted gay 
The hunter steed, exulting o`er the dale, 
And drew the roseate breath of orient day; 
Sometimes, retiring to the secret vale, 
Yclad in steel, and bright with burnish`d mail, 
He strain`d the bow, or toss`d the sounding spear, 
Or darting on the goal, outstripp`d the gale, 
Or wheel`d the chariot in its mid career, 
Or strenuous wrestled hard with many a tough compeer. 
At other times he pried through nature`s store, 
Whate`er she in the ethereal round contains, 
Whate`er she hides beneath her verdant floor, 
The vegetable and the mineral reigns; 
Or else he scann`d the globe, those small domains, 
Where restless mortals such a turmoil keep, 
Its seas, its floods, its mountains, and its plains; 
But more he search`d the mind, and roused from sleep 
Those moral seeds whence we heroic actions reap. 
Nor would he scorn to stoop from high pursuits 
Of heavenly truth, and practise what she taught: 
Vain is the tree of knowledge without fruits! 
Sometimes in hand the spade or plough he caught, 
Forth calling all with which boon earth is fraught; 
Sometimes he plied the strong mechanic tool, 
Or rear`d the fabric from the finest draught; 
And oft he put himself to Neptune`s school, 
Fighting with winds and waves on the vex`d ocean pool. 
To solace then these rougher toils, he tried 
To touch the kindling canvass into life; 
With nature his creating pencil vied, 
With nature joyous at the mimic strife: 
Or, to such shapes as graced Pygmalion`s wife 
He hew`d the marble; or, with varied fire, 
He roused the trumpet, and the martial fife, 
Or bad the lute sweet tenderness inspire, 
Or verses framed that well might wake Apollo`s lyre. 
Accomplish`d thus, he from the woods issued, 
Full of great aims, and bent on bold emprise; 
The work, which long he in his breast had brew`d, 
Now to perform he ardent did devise; 
To wit, a barbarous world to civilize. 
Earth was till then a boundless forest wild; 
Nought to be seen but savage wood, and skies; 
No cities nourish`d arts, no culture smiled, 
No government, no laws, no gentle manners mild. 
A rugged wight, the worst of brutes, was man; 
On his own wretched kind he, ruthless, prey`d: 
The strongest still the weakest overran; 
In every country mighty robbers sway`d, 
And guile and ruffian force were all their trade. 
Life was a scene of rapine, want, and woe; 
Which this brave knight, in noble anger, made 
To swear he would the rascal rout o`erthrow, 
For, by the powers divine, it should no more be so! 
It would exceed the purport of my song 
To say how this best sun, from orient climes, 
Came beaming life and beauty all along, 
Before him chasing indolence and crimes. 
Still as he pass`d, the nations he sublimes, 
And calls forth arts and virtues with his ray: 
Then Egypt, Greece, and Rome their golden times, 
Successive, had; but now in ruins grey 
They lie, to slavish sloth and tyranny a prey.
To crown his toils, Sir Industry then spread 
The swelling sail, and made for Britain`s coast. 
A silvan life till then the natives led, 
In the brown shades and green-wood forest lost, 
All careless rambling where it liked them most: 
Their wealth the wild deer bouncing through the glade; 
They lodged at large, and lived at nature`s cost; 
Save spear and bow, withouten other aid; 
Yet not the Roman steel their naked breast dismay`d. 
He liked the soil, he liked the clement skies, 
He liked 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 liked 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 firmest 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 flourish`d 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 combined. 
Then 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, 
While o`er the encircling deep Britannia`s thunder roars. 
The drooping muses then he westward call`d, 
From the famed city by Propontic sea, 
What time the Turk the enfeebled Grecian thrall`d; 
Thence from their cloister`d walks he set them free, 
And brought them to another Castalie, 
Where Isis many a famous nursling 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. 
Yet the fine arts were what he finished least. 
For why? They are the quintessence of all, 
The growth of labouring time, and slow increased; 
Unless, as seldom chances, it should fall 
That mighty patrons the coy sisters call 
Up to the sunshine of uncumber`d ease, 
Where no rude care the mounting thought may thrall, 
And where they nothing have to do but please: 
Ah! gracious God! thou know`st they ask no other fees. 
But now, alas! we live too late in time: 
Our patrons now e`en grudge that little claim, 
Except to such as sleek the soothing rhyme; 
And yet, forsooth, they wear Mæcenas` name, 
Poor sons of puft-up vanity, not fame. 
Unbroken spirits, cheer! still, still remains 
The eternal patron, Liberty; whose flame, 
While she protects, inspires the noblest strains: 
The best and sweetest far, are toil-created gains. 
When as the knight had framed, in Britain-land, 
A matchless form of glorious government, 
In which the sovereign laws alone command, 
Laws stablish`d by the public free consent, 
Whose majesty is to the sceptre lent; 
When this great plan, with each dependent art, 
Was settled firm, and to his heart`s content, 
Then sought he from the toilsome scene to part, 
And let life`s vacant eve breathe quiet through the heart. 
For this he chose a farm in Deva`s vale, 
Where his long alleys peep`d upon the main: 
In this calm seat he drew the healthful gale, 
Here mix`d the chief, the patriot, and the swain. 
The happy monarch of his silvan train, 
Here, sided by the guardians of the fold, 
He walk`d his rounds, and cheer`d his blest 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; 
Witness, ye flocks, whose woolly vestments far 
Exceed soft India`s cotton, or her silk; 
Witness, with Autumn charged the nodding car, 
That homeward came beneath sweet evening`s star, 
Or of September-moons the radiance mild. 
O hide thy head, abominable war! 
Of crimes and ruffian idleness the child! 
From Heaven this life ysprung, from hell thy glories viled! 
Nor from his deep retirement banish`d was 
The amusing care of rural industry. 
Still, as with grateful change the seasons pass, 
New scenes arise, new landscapes strike the eye, 
And all the enlivened country beautify: 
Gay plains extend where marshes slept before; 
O`er recent meads the exulting streamlets fly; 
Dark frowning heaths grow bright with Ceres` store, 
And woods imbrown the steep, or wave along the shore. 
As nearer to his farm you made approach, 
He polish`d Nature with a finer hand: 
Yet on her beauties durst not art encroach; 
`Tis Art`s alone these beauties to expand. 
In graceful dance immingled, o`er the land, 
Pan, Pales, Flora, and Pomona play`d: 
Here, too, brisk gales the rude wild common fann`d, 
A happy place; where free, and unafraid, 
Amid the flowering brakes each coyer creature stray`d. 
But in prime vigour what can last for aye? 
That soul-enfeebling wizard Indolence, 
I whilom sung, wrought in his works decay: 
Spread far and wide was his cursed influence; 
Of public virtue much he dull`d the sense, 
E`en much of private; eat our spirit out, 
And fed our rank luxurious vices: whence 
The land was overlaid with many a lout; 
Not, as old fame reports, wise, generous, bold, and stout. 
A rage of pleasure madden`d every breast, 
Down to the lowest lees the ferment ran: 
To his licentious wish each must be bless`d, 
With joy be fever`d; snatch it as he can. 
Thus Vice the standard rear`d; her arrier-ban 
Corruption call`d, and loud she gave the word, 
‘Mind, mind yourselves! why should the vulgar man, 
The lacquey be more virtuous than his lord? 
Enjoy this span of life! `tis all the gods afford.’ 
The tidings reach`d to where, in quiet hall, 
The good old knight enjoy`d well earn`d repose: 
‘Come, come, Sir Knight! thy children on thee call; 
Come, save us yet, ere ruin round us close! 
The demon Indolence thy toils o`erthrows.’ 
On this the noble colour stain`d his cheeks, 
Indignant, glowing through the whitening snows 
Of venerable eld; his eye full speaks 
His ardent soul, and from his couch at once he breaks. 
‘I will, (he cried) so help me, God! destroy 
That villain Archimage.’—His page then straight 
He to him call`d; a fiery-footed boy, 
Benempt Dispatch:—‘My steed be at the gate; 
My bard attend; quick, bring the net of fate.’ 
This net was twisted by the sisters three; 
Which, when once cast o`er harden`d wretch, too late 
Repentance comes: replevy cannot be 
From the strong iron grasp of vengeful destiny. 
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! 
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