gay.

The best of men have ever lov'd repose: They hate to mingle in the filthy fray; Where the soul sours, and gradual rancor grows, Embitter'd more from peevish day to day. Ev'n those whom Fame has lent her fairest ray, The most renown'd of worthy wights of yore, From a base world at last have stol'n away: So Scipio, to the soft Cumaan shore Retiring, tasted joy he never knew before.

"But if a little exercise you choose, Some zest for ease, 'tis not forbidden here. Amid the groves you may indulge the Muse, Or tend the blooms, and deck the vernal year; Or softly stealing, with your watery gear, Along the brook, the crimson-spotted fry You may delude: the whilst, amus'd, 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 th' 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 ceas'd. 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. Wak'd by the crowd, slow from his bench arose A comely full-spread porter, swoln with sleep: His calm, broad, thoughtless aspect, breath'd 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, Thro' which his half-wak'd soul would faintly peep. Then, taking his black staff, he call'd his man, And rous'd 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 that 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.

grew,

And sweet oblivion of vile earthly care;

Fair gladsome waking thoughts, and joyous dreams more fair.

This rite perform'd, all inly pleas'd and still,
Withouten trump, was proclamation made.
"Ye sons of Indolence, do what you will;
And wander where you list, thro' håll or glade!
Be no man's pleasure for another staid;
Let each as likes him best his hours employ,
And curs'd be he who minds his neighbor'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 black 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 con strain'd.

As when a shepherd of the Hebrid isles, Plac'd 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 Phoebus 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 ply'd 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 everywhere huge cover'd tables stood, With wines high-flavor'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, Ev'n undemanded by a sign or sound; You need but wish, and, instantly obey'd, Fair-rang'd 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 puzzling sons of party next appear'd,
In dark cabals and nightly juntoes met;
And now they whisper'd close, now shrugging
rear'd

Th' important shoulder; then, as if to get

But what most show'd the vanity of life. Was to behold the nations all on fire, In cruel broils engag'd, and deadly strife: Most Christian kings, inflam'd by black desire, With honorable ruffians in their hire, Cause war to rage, and blood around to pour : Of this sad work when each begins to tire, They sit them down just where they were before Till for new scenes of woe peace shall their force

restore.

To number up the thousands dwelling here,
An useless were, and eke an endless task;
From kings, and those who at the helm appear,
To gypsies 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 involv'd, 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 travers'd the cerulean field,
And markt 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 trice 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

Than forth they various rush in mighty fret; When, lo! push'd up to power, and crown'd their

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 lothely toad:
And sure his linen was not very clean.

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

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 lothed 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 chaunc'd to trippen by; Which, when observ'd, 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-en
roll'd,

Their oracles break forth mysterious, as of old.

Here languid Beauty kept her pale-fac'd court:
Bevies of dainty dames, of high degree,
From every quarter hither made resort;
Where, from gross mortal care and business
free,

They lay, pour'd out in ease and luxury.
Or should they a vain show of work assume,
Alas! and well-a-day! what can it be?
To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom:
But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel, and
loom.

Their only labor was to kill the time;
And labor 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 reclin'd,

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,
Diseas'd and lothesome, 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.

This character of Mr. Thomson was written by Lord Lyttleton