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That power is music: far beyond the stretch
Of those unmeaning warblers on our stage;
'Those clumsy heroes, those fat-headed gods,
Who move no passion justly but contempt:
Who, like our dancers, (light indeed and strong!)
Do wond'rous feats, but never heard of grace.
The fault is ours; we bear those monstrous
arts;

Good Heaven! we praise them: we, with loud. est peals

Applaud the fool that highest lifts his heels;
And with insipid show of rapture, die
Of ideot notes impertinently long.
But he the Muse's laurel justly shares,

A poet he, and touch'd with Heaven's own fire,
Who, with bold rage or solemn pomp of sound,
Inflames, exalts, and ravishes the soul;

Now tender, plaintive, sweet almost to pain,
In love dissolves you; now in sprightly strains
Breathes a gay rapture thro' your thrilling
breasts;

Or melts the hearts with airs divinely sad;
Or wakes to horrour the tremendous strings.
Such was the bard, whose heavenly strains of old
Appeas'd the fiend of melancholy Saul.
Such was, if old and heathen fame say true,
The man who bade the Theban domes ascend,
And tam'd the savage nations with his song;
And such the Thracian, whose melodious lyre,
Tun'd to scft woe, made all the mountains weep;
Sooth'd even th' inexorable powers of Hell,
And half redeem'd his lost Eurydice.
Music exalts each joy, allays each grief,
Expels diseases, softens every pain,
Subdues the rage of poison and of plague;
And hence the wise of ancient days ador'd
One power of physic, melody, and song.

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KIND to my frailties still, Eumenes, hear;
Once more I try the patience of your ear.
Not oft I sing the happier for the town,
So stunn'd already they're quite stupid grown
With monthly, daily-charming things I own.
Happy for them, I seldom court the Nine;
Another art, a serious art is mine.
Of nauseous verses offer'd once a week,
"You cannot say I did it," if you're sick.
'Twas ne'er my pride to shine by flashy fits
Amongst the daily, weekly, monthly wits.
Content if some few friends indulge my name,
So slightly am I stung with love of fame,
I would not scrawl one hundred idle lines-
Not for the praise of all the magazines.

Unhappy still our poets will rehearse
To Goths, that stare astonish'd at their verse;
To the rank tribes submit their virgin lays:
So gross, so bestial, is the lust of praise!

Yet once a moon, perhaps, 1 steal a night; And, if our sire Apollo pleases, write. [follow, You smile but all the train the Muse that Christians and dunces, still we quote Apollo.

This little piece was addressed to a worthy gentleman, as an expression of gratitude for his kind endeavours to do the author a great piece of service.

I to sound judges from the mob appeal, And write to those who most my subject feel. Eumenes, these dry moral lines I trust [disgust. With you, whom nought that's moral can With you I venture, in plain home-spun sense, What I imagine of Benevolence.

Of all the monsters of the human kind, What strikes you most is the low selfish mind. You wonder how, without one liberal joy, The steady miser can his years employ ; Without one friend, howe'er his fortunes thrive, Despis'd and hated, how he bears to live. With honest warmth of heart, with some degree Of pity that such wretched things should be, You scorn the sordid knave-He grins at you, And deems himself the wiser of the two.--'Tis all but taste, howe'er we sift the case; He has his joy, as every creature has. 'Tis true, he cannot boast an angel's share, Yet has what happiness his organs bear. Thou likewise mad'st the high seraphic soul, Maker Omnipotent! and thou the owl. Heav'n form'd him too,and doubtless for some use : But Crane-court knows not yet all Nature's views. 'Tis chiefly taste, or blunt, or gross, or fine, Makes life insipid, bestial, or divine. Better be born with taste to little rent, Than the dull monarch of a continent. Without this bounty which the Gods bestow, Can Fortune make one favourite happy?-No. As well might Fortune in her frolic vein, Proclaim an oyster sovereign of the main. Without fine nerves, and bosom justly warm'd, An eye, an ear, a fancy to be charm'd, In vain majestic Wren expands the dome; Blank as pale stucco Rubens lines the room: Lost are the raptures of bold Handel's strain; Great Tully storms, sweet Virgil sings, in vain. The beauteous forms of Nature are effac'd; Tempe's soft charms, the raging wat❜ry waste; Each greatly-wild, each sweet romantic scene, Unheeded rises, and almost unseen.

Yet these are joys, with some of better clay, To sooth the toils of life's embarrass'd way. These the fine frame with charming horrours chill, And give the nerves delightfully to thrill. But of all taste the noblest and the best, The first enjoyment of the generous breast, Is to behold in man's obnoxious state Scenes of content, and happy turns of fate. Fair views of Nature, shining works of art, Amuse the fancy: but those touch the heart. Chiefly for this proud epic song delights, For this some riot on th' Arabian Nights. Each case is ours: and for the human mind 'Tis monstrous not to feel for all mankind. Were all mankind unhappy, who could taste Elysium? or be solitarily blest? Shock'd with surrounding shapes of human woe, All that or sense or fancy could bestow, You would reject with sick and coy disdain, And pant to see one cheerful face again.

But if life's better prospects to behold So much delight the man of generous mould; How happy they, the great, the godlike few, Who daily cultivate this pleasing view!

This is a joy possess'd by few indeed !
Dame Fortune has so many fools to feed,
She cannot oft afford, with all her store,
To yield her smiles where Nature smil'd before.
To sinking worth a cordial hand to lend;
With better fortune to surprize a friend;
To cheer the modest stranger's lonely state;
Or snatch an orphan family from fate;
To do, possess'd with virtue's noblest fire,
Such generous deeds as we with tears admire;
Deeds that, above ambition's vulgar aiu,
Secure an amiable, a solid fame : [seize;
Those are such joys as Heaven's first favourites
These please you now, and will for ever please.
Too seldom we great moral deeds admire;
The will, the power, th' occasion must conspire.
Yet few there are so impotent and low,
But can some small good offices bestow.
Small as they are, however cheap they come,
They add still something to the general sum:
And him who gives the little in his power,
The world acquits; and Heaven demands no more.
Unhappy he who feels each neighbour's woe,
Yet no relief, no comfort can bestow.
Unhappy too, who feels each kind essay,
And for great favours has but words to pay;
Who, scornful of the flatterer's fawning art,
Dreads even to pour his gratitude of heart;
And with a distant lover's silent pain
Must the best movements of his soul restrain.
But men sagacious to explore mankind
Trace even the coyest passions of the mind.
Not only to the good we owe good-will;
In good and bad distress demands it still.
This with the generous lays distinction low,
Endears a friend, and recommends a foe.
Not that resentment ever ought to rise;
For even excess of virtue ranks with vice:
And there are villanies no bench can awe,
That sport without the limits of the law.
No laws th' ungenerous crime would reprehend
Could I forget Eumenes was my friend:
In vain the gibbet or the pillory claim

The wretch who blasts a helpless virgin's fame.
Where laws are dup'd, 'tis nor unjust nor mean
To seize the proper time for honest spleen.
An open candid foe I could not hate,
Nor even insult the base in humbled state;
But thriving malice tamely to forgive-
'Tis somewhat late to be so primitive.

But I detain you with these tedious lays,
Which few perhaps would read, but fewer praise.
No matter could I please the polish'd few
Who taste the serious or the gay like you,
The squeamish mob may find my verses bare
Of every grace-but curse me if I care.
Besides, I little court Parnassian fame ;
There's yet a better than a poet's name.
'Twould more indulge my pride to hear it said,
That I with you the paths of honour tread,
Than that amongst the proud poetic train
No modern boasted a more classic vein ;
Or that in numbers I let loose my song,
Smooth as the Tweed, and as the Severn strong.

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Autor anonym. Fragm.

RANGE from Tower-hill all London to the Fleet,
Thence round the Temple t' utmost Grosvenor-
street:

Take in your route both Gray's and Lincoln's Inn;
Miss not, be sure, my lords and gentlemen ;
You'll hardly raise, as I with Petty' guess,
Above twelve thousand men of taste; unless
In desperate times a connoisseur may pass.

"A connoisseur! what's that?" 'Tis hard
But you must oft amidst the fair and gay [to say:
Have seen a wou'd-be rake, a fluttering fool,
Who swears he loves the sex with all his soul.
Alas, vain youth! dost thou admire sweet Jones?
Thou be gallant without er blood or bones!
You'd split to hear th' insipid coxcomb ery

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Ah, charming Nancy! 'tis too much! I die!"
"Die and bed-n'd," says one; "but let me tell ye
I'll
pay the loss if ever rapture kili ye."
'Tis easy learnt the art to talk by rote:
At Nando's 'twill but cost you half a great; [sir;
The Bedford school at three pence is not dear,
At White's the stars instruct you for a texter.
But he, whom Nature never meant to share
One spark of taste, will never catch it there :-
Nor no where else; howe'er the booby beau
Grows great with Pope, and Horace, and Boilean.

Good native taste, though rude, is seldom
Be it in music, painting, or in song. [wrong,
But this, as well as other faculties,
Improves with age and ripens by degrees.
I know, my dear, 'tis needless to deny't,
You like Voiture, you think him wondrous bright:
But even years hence, your relish more matur'd,
What now delights will hardly be endur'd.
The boy may live to taste Racine's fine charms,
Whom Lee's bald orb or Rowe's dry rapture

warms.

But he, enfranchis'd from his tutor's care,
Who places Butler near Cervantes' chair;
Or with Erasmus can admit to vie
Brown of Squab-hall of merry memory;
Will die a Goth: and nod at Woden's feast 2,
Th' eternal winter long, on Gregory's breast 3.

Long may he swill, this patriarch of the dull,
The drowsy mum-But touch not Maro's sku!!!
His holy barbarous dotage sought to doom,
Good Heaven! th' immortal classics to the
tomb!--

Those sacred lights shall bid new genius rise
When a Rome's saints bave rotted from the skies.
Sir William Petty, author of the Political
Arithmetic.

2 Alluding to the Gothic Heaven, Woden's hall; where the happy are for ever employed in drinking beer, mum, and other comfortable liquors out of the skulls of those whom they had slain in battle.

3 Pope Gregory the VIth, distinguished by the name of St. Gregory; whose pious zeal in the cause of barbarous ignorance and priestly tyranny, exerted itself in demolishing, to the utmost of his power, all the remains of heathen genius.

Be these your guides, if at the ivy crown

You aim; each country's classics, and your own.
But chiefly with the ancients pass your prime,
And drink Castalia at the fountain's brim.
The man to genuine Burgundy bred up,
Soon starts, the dash of Methuen in his cup.
Those sovereign masters of the Muses skill
Are the true patterns of good writing still.
Their ore was rich and seven times purg'd of lead.
Their art seem'd nature, 'twas so finely hid.
Though born with all the powers of writing well,
What pains it cost they did not blush to tell-
Their ease (my lords!) ne'er loung'd for want of
Nor did their rage through affectation tire, [fire,
Free from all tawdry and imposing glare
They trusted to their native grace of air.
Rapt'rous and wild the trembling soul they seize,
Or sly coy beauties steal it by degrees;
The more you view them still the more they
please.

Yet there are thousands of scholastic merit Who worm their sense out but ne'er taste their spirit.

Witness each pedant under Bentely bred;
Each commentator that e'er commented.
(You scarce can seize a spot of classic ground,
With leagues of Dutch morass so floated round.)
Witness-but sir, I hold a cautious pen,
Lest I should wrong some" honourable men."
They grow enthusiasts too—“Tis true! 'tis pity!"
But 'tis not every lunatic that's witty.
Some have run Maro-and some Milton-mad,
Ashley once turn'd a solid barber's head:
Hear all that's said or printed if you can,
Ashley has turn'd more solid heads than one.

Let such admire each great or specious name; For right or wrong the joy to them's the same. Right!" Yes, a thousand times.-Each fool

has beard

That Homer was a wonder of a bard.
Despise them civilly with all my heart-
But to convince them is a desperate part.
Why should you tease one for what secret cause
One doats on Horace, or on Hudibras ?
'Tis cruel, sir, 'tis needless, to endeavour
To teach a sot of taste he knows no flavonr.
To disunite I neither wish nor hope
A stubborn blockhead from his fav'rite fop.
Yes-fop I say, were Maro's self before 'em:
For Maro's self grows dull as they pore o'er him.
But hear their raptures o'er some specious
rhyme

Dubb'd by the musk'd and greasy mob subiime.
For spleen's dear sake hear how a coxcomb prates
As clam'rous o'er his joys as fifty cats;
"Music has charms to sooth a savage breast,
To soften rocks, and oaks,"-and all the rest :
"I've heard"-Bless these long ears:-"Heav'ns
what a strain !

Good God! what thunders burst in this Campaign!
Hark! Waller warbles! ah! how sweetly killing!
Then that inimitable Splendid Shilling!
Rowe breathes all Shakespeare here!-That ode
of Prior

Is Spenser quite! egad his very fire!-
As like "-Yes faith! as gum-flowers to the rose,
Or as to claret flat Minorca's dose;
As like as (if I am not grossly wrong)
Erle Robert's Mice to aught e'er Chaucer sung.

F

Read boldly, and unprejudic'd peruse
Each fav'rite modern, ev'n each ancient muse.
With all his comic salt and tragic rage,
The great stupendous genius of our stage,
Boast of our island, pride of human-kind,
Had faults to which the boxes are not blind.
His frailties are to ev'ry gossip known:
Yet Milton's pedantries not shock the town.
Ne'er be the dupe of names, however high;
For some outlive good parts, some misapply.
Each elegant Spectator you admire;
But must you therefore swear by Cato's fire?
Masques for the court, and oft a clumsey jest,
Disgrac'd the Muse that wrought the Alchemist.
"But to the ancients."-Faith! I am not clear,
For all the smooth round type of Elzevir,
That every work which lasts in prose or song
Two thousand years, deserves to last so long.
For not to mention some eternal blades
Known only now in th' academic shades,
(Those sacred groves where raptur'd spirits stray,
And in word-hunting waste the live-long day)
Ancients whom none but curious critics scan,
Do read Messalas' praises if you can.
Ah! who but feels the sweet contagious smart
While soft Tibullus pours his tender heart?
With him the Loves and Muses melt in tears;

But not a word of some hexameters.
"You grow so squeamish and so dev'lish dry,`
You'll call Lucretius vapid next." Not I.
Some find him tedious, others think him lame :
But if he lags, his subject is to blame. [tried,
Rough weary roads through barren wilds he
Yet still be marches with true Roman pride:
Sometimes a meteor, gorgeous, rapid, bright,
He streams athwart the philosophic night.
Find you in Horace no insipid odes?—
He dar'd to tell us Homer sometimes nods;
And but for such a critic's hardy skill
Homer might slumber unsuspected still.

Tasteless, implicit, indolent, and tame,
At second-hand we chiefly praise or blame.
Hence 'tis, for else one knows not why or how,
Some authors flourish for a year or two:
For many some, more wond'rous still to tell;
Farquhar yet lingers on the brink of Hell.
Of solid merit others pine unknown;

At first, though Carlos 5 swimmingly went down,
Poor Belvidera fail'd to melt the town.
Sunk in dead night the giant Milton lay,
'Till Sommer's hand produc'd him to the day.
But, thanks to Heav'n and Addison's good grace,
Now ev'ry fop is charm'd with Chevy Chace.

Specious and sage, the sovereign of the flock
Led to the downs, or from the wave-worn rock
Reluctant hurl'd, the tame implicit train
Or crop the downs, or headlong seek the main.
As blindly we our solemn leaders follow,
And good, and bad, and execrable swallow.

4 A poem of Tibullus's in hexameter verse; as yawning and insipid as his elegies are tender and natural.

5 Don Carlos, a tragedy of Otway's, now long and justly forgotten, went off with great applause; while his Orphan, a somewhat better performance, and what is yet inore strange, his Venice Preserved, according to the theatrical anecdotes of those times, met with a very cold reception,

Pray, on the first throng'd evening of a play That wears the facies hippocratica 6, Strong lines of death, signs dire of reprobation; Have you not seen the angel of salvation Appear sublime; with wise and solemn rap To teach the doubtful rabble where to clap?The rabble knows not where our dramas shine; But where the cane goes pat—“By G- that's fine!"

Judge for yourself; nor wait with timid phlegm

'Till some illustrious pedant hum or hem.
The lords who starv'd old Ben were learn'dly fond
Of Chaucer, whom with bungling toil they conn'd.
Their sons, whose ears bold Milton could not seize,
Would laugh o'er Ben like mad, and snuff and

sneeze,

And swear, and seem as tickled as you please.
I
Their spawn, the pride of this sublimer age,
Feel to the toes and horns grave Milton's rage.
Though liv'd he now he might appeal with scorn
To lords, knights, 'squires, and doctors, yet un-
Or justly mad, to Moloch's burning fane [born;
Devote the choicest children of his brain.
Judge for yourself; and, as you find, report
Of wit, as freely as of beef or port.
Zounds! shall a pert or bluff important wight,
Whose brain is fanciless, whose blood is white;
A mumbling ape of taste; prescribe us laws
To try the poets, for no better cause
Than that he boasts per ann. ten thousand clear,
Yelps in the house, or barely sits a peer?
For shame! for shame! the liberal British soul
To stoop to any stale dictator's rule!

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7 First painter to Lewis XIV. who, to speak in fashionable French English, called himself Lewis the Great. Our sovereign lords the passions, Love, Rage, Despair, &c. were graciously pleased to sit to him in their turns for their portraits; which he was generous enough to communicate to the public; to the great improvement, no doubt, of history-painting. It was he who they say poisoned Le Sueur; who, without half his advantages in many other respects, was so unreasonable and provoking as to display a genius with which his own could stand no comparison. It was he and his Gothic disciples, who, with sly scratches, defaced the most masterly of this Le Sueur's performances, as often as their barbarous envy could snugly reach them. Yet after all these achievements he died in his bed! A catastrophe which could not have happened to him in a country like this, where the fine arts are as zealously and judiciously patronised as they are well understood.

And then to flatter where there's no reward➡
Better be any patron-hunting bard,
Who half our lords with filthy praise besmears,
And sing an anthem to all ministers:
Taste th' Attic salt in ev'ry peer's poor rebus,
And crown each Gothic idol for a Phoebus.

Alas! so far from free, so far from brave,
We dare not show the little taste we have.
With us you'll see ev'n vanity control
The most refin'd sensations of the soul.
Sad Otway's scenes, great Shakespeare's we defy:
Lard, madam! 'tis so unpolite to cry!—
For shame, my dear! d'ye credit all this stuff?--
I vow-well, this is innocent enough."
At Athens long ago, the ladies-(married)
Dreamt not they misbehav'd though they mis-
carried,

When a wild poet with licentious rage
Turn'd fifty furies loose upon the stage.

They were so tender and so easy mov'd, Heav'ns! how the Grecian ladies must have

lov'd!

For all the fine sensations still have dwelt,
Perhaps, where one was exquisitely felt.
Thus he who heavenly Maro truly feels,
Stands fix'd on Raphael, and at Handel thrills.
The grosser senses too, the taste, the smell,
Are likely truest where the fine prevail:
Who doubts that Horace must have cater'd well?
Friend, I'm a shrewd observer, and will guess
What books you doat on from your fav'rite mess,
Brown and L'Estrange will surely charm whom.
e'er

The frothy pertness strikes of weak small-beer.
Who steeps the calf's fat loin in greasy sauce
Will hardly loathe the praise that bastes an ass.
Who riots on scotcht collops scorns not any
Insipid, fulsome, trashy miscellany;
And who devours whate'er the cook can dish up,
Will for a classic consecraté each bishop.

But I am sick of pen and ink; and you
Will find this letter long enough. Adieu!

IMITATIONS OF SHAKESPEARE

AND SPENSER.

ADVERTISEMENT FROM THE PUBLISHER.

The following imitation of Shakespeare was one of our author's first attempts in poetry, made when he was very young. It helped to amuse the solitude of a winter passed in a wild ro mantic country; and, what is rather particu lar, was just finished when Mr. Thomson's celebrated poem upon the same subject appeared. Mr. Thomson, soon hearing of it, had the curiosity to procure a copy by the means of a common acquaintance. He showed it to his poetical friends, Mr. Mallet, Mr. Aaron Hill, and Dr. Young, who, it seems, did great honour to it; and the first-mentioned gentleman wrote to one of his friends at Edinburgh, desiring the author's leave to publish it; a request too flattering to youthful vanity to be resisted. But Mr. Mallet altered his mind; and this little piece has hitherto remained unpublished.

$ See Felton's Classics.

The other imitations of Shakespeare happen to have been saved out of the ruins of an unfinished tragedy on the story of Tereus and Philomela; attempted upon an irregular and extravagant plan, at an age much too early for such achievements. However, they are here exhibited for the sake of such guests as may like a little repast of scraps.

Now Summer with her wanton court is gone
To revel on the south-side of the world,
And flaunt and frolic out the live-long day.
While Winter rising pale from northern seas
Shakes from his hoary locks the drizzling rheum.
A blast so shrewd makes the tall-bodled pines
Unsinew'd bend, and heavy-paced bears
Sends growling to their savage tenements.

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His starving flock whose number's all too short
To make the goodly sum of yester-night:
Part deep ingurgitated, part yet struggling
With their last pantings melt themselves a grave
In Winter's bosom; which yields not to the
Of the pale languid crescet of this world, [touch
That now with lean and churlish husbandry

Now blows the surly north, and chills through-Yields heartlessly the remnants of his prime;

out

The stiffening regions; while, by stronger charms
Than Circe e'er or fell Medea brew'd,
Each brook that wont to prattle to its banks,
Lies all bestill'd and wedg'd betwixt its banks,
Nor moves the wither'd reeds: and the rash flood
That from the mountains held its headstrong
Buried in livid sheets of vaulting ice, [course,
Seen through the shameful breaches, idly creeps
To pay a scanty tribute to the ocean.
What wonder? when the floating wilderness
That scorns our miles, and calls geography
A shallow pryer; from whose unsteady mirror
The high-bung pole surveys his dancing locks;
When this still-raving deep lies mute and dead,
Nor heaves its swelling bosom to the winds.
The surges, baited by the fierce north-east,
Tossing with fretful spleen their angry heads
To roar and rush together,

Even in the foam of all their madness struck
To monumentalice, stand all astride

The rocks they washed so late. Such execution,
So stern, so sudden, wrought the grisly aspect
Of terrible Medusa, ere young Perseus
With his keen sabre cropt her horrid head,
And laid her serpents rowling on the dust; [stone
When wandering thro' the woods she frown'd to
Their savage tenants: just as the foaming lion
Sprung furious on his prey, her speedier power
Outrun his haste; no time to languish in,
But fix'd in that fierce attitude he stands
Like Rage in marble.-Now portly Argoses
Lie wedg'd 'twixt Neptune's ribs. The bridg'd
abysm

Has chang'd our ships to horses; the swift bark
Yields to the heavy waggon and the cart,
That now from isle to isle maintain the trade;
And where the surface-haunting dolphin led
Her sportive young, is now an area fit
For the wild school-boy's pastiine.

Meantime the evening skies, crusted with ice, Shifting from red to black their weighty skirts, Hang mournful o'er the hills; and stealing night Rides the bleak puffing winds, that seem to spit Their foam sparse thro' the welkin, which is nothing

If not bebeld. Anon the burden'd Heaven
Shakes from its ample sieve the boulted snow;
That fluttering down besprinkles the sad trees
In mockery of leaves; piles up the hills
To monstrous altitude, and chokes to the lips

And, like most spendthrifts, starves his latter days
For former rankness. He with bleary eye
Blazons his own disgrace; the harness'd waste
Rebellious to his blunt defeated shafts;
And idly strikes the chalky mountains' tops
That rise to kiss the welkin's ruddy lips;
Where all the rash young bullies of the air
Mount their quick slender penetrating wings,
Whipping the frost-burnt villagers to the bones;
And growing with their motion mad and furious,
"Till swoln to tempests they out-rage the thunder;
Winnow the chaffy snow, and mock the skies
Even with their own artillery retorted;
Tear up and throw th' accumulated hills
Into the vallies. And as rude hurricanes,
Discharg'd from the wind-swoln cheeks of Hea-
Buoy up the swilling skirts of Araby's
Inhospitable wilds,

[ven,

And roll the dusty desert through the skies,
Choaking the liberal air, and smothering
Whole caravans at once; such havoc spreads
This war of Heaven and Earth, such sudden ruin
Visits their houseless citizens, that shrink

In the false shelter of the hills together,
And hear the tempest howling o'er their heads
That by and by o'erwhelms them. The very
birds,

Those few that troop'd not with the chiming tribe
Of amorous Summer, quit their ruffian element;
And with domestic tameness hop and flutter
Within the roofs of persecuting man,
(Grown hospitable by like sense of sufferance ;)
Whither the hinds, the debt o' the day discharg'd,
From kiln or barn repairing, shut the door
On surly Winter; crowd the clean-swept hearth
And cheerful shining fire; and doff the time,
The whilst the maids their twirling spindles ply,
With musty legends, and ear-pathing tales,
Of giants, and black necromantic bards,
Of air-built castles, feats of madeap knights,
And every hollow fiction of romance.
And, as their rambling-humour leads them, talk
Of prodigies, and things of dreadful utterance,
That set them all agape, rouse up their hair,
And make the ideot drops start from their eyes;
Of church-yards belching flames at dead of night,
Of walking statues, ghosts unaffable,

Haunting the dark waste tower or airless dungeon;
Then of the elves that deftly trip the green,
Drinking the summer's moonlight from the
flowers;

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