Mournfully rolls. Yet once again, my Muse, Yet once again, and soar a loftier flight; Lo, the resistless theme, imperial Rome.
Fall'n, fall'n, a silent heap; her heroes all Sunk in their urns; behold the pride of pomp, The throne of nations fall'n; obscur'd in dust; E'en yet majestical: the solemn scene Elates the soul, while now the rising Sun Flames on the ruins in the purer air Towering aloft, upon the glittering plain, Like broken rocks, a vast circumference: Rent palaces, crush'd columns, rifled moles, Fanes roll'd on fanes, and tombs on buried tombs. Deep lies in dust the Theban obelisk Immense along the waste; minuter art, Gliconian forms, or Phidian subtly fair, O'erwhelming; as th' immense Leviathan The finny brood, when near Ierne's shore Outstretch'd, unwieldy, his island-length appears Above the foamy flood. Globose and huge, Grey mouldering temples swell, and wide o'ercast The solitary landscape, hills and woods, And boundless wilds; while the vine-mantled brows The pendent goats unveil, regardless they Of hourly peril, though the clefted domes Tremble to every wind. The pilgrim oft At dead of night, 'mid his orison hears Aghast the voice of Time, disparting towers, Tumbling all precipitate down-dash'd, Rattling around, loud-thundering to the Moon; While murmurs soothe each awful interval Of ever-falling waters; shrouded Nile, Eridanus, and Tiber with his twins,
And palmy Euphrates; they with drooping locks Hang o'er their urns, and mournfully among The plaintive-echoing ruins pour their streams.
Yet here, adventurous in the sacred search Of ancient arts, the delicate of mind, Curious and modest, from all climes resort. Grateful society! with these I raise The toilsome step up the proud Palatin, Through spiry cypress groves, and towering pine, Waving aloft o'er the big ruin's brows,
On numerous arches rear'd: and frequent stopp'd, The sunk ground startles me with dreadful chasm, Breathing forth darkness from the vast profound Of aisles and halls, within the mountain's womb. Nor these the nether works; all these beneath, And all beneath the vales and hills around, Extend the cavern'd sewers, massy, firm, As the Sibylline grot beside the dead Lake of Avernus; such the sewers huge, Whither the great Tarquinian genius dooms Each wave impure; and proud with added rains, Hark how the mighty billows lash their vaults, And thunder; how they heave their rocks in vain! Though now incessant time has roll'd around A thousand winters o'er the changeful world, And yet a thousand since, th' indignant floods Roar loud in their firm bounds, and dash and swell, In vain; convey'd to Tiber's lowest wave.
And intermingling vines; and figur'd nymphs, Floras and Chloes of delicious mould, Cheering the darkness; and deep empty tombs, And dells, and mouldering shrines, with old decay Rustic and green, and wide-embowering shades, Shot from the crooked clefts of nodding towers. A solemn wilderness! with error sweet, I wind the lingering step, where'er the path Mazy conducts me, which the vulgar foot O'er sculptures maim'd has made; Anubis, Sphinx Idols of antique guise, and horned Pan, Terrific, monstrous shapes! preposterous gods Of Fear and Ignorance, by the sculptor's hand Hewn into forın, and worshipp'd; as e'en now Blindly they worship at their breathless mouthst In varied appellations: men to these (From depth to depth in darkening error fall'n) At length ascrib'd th' inapplicable name.
How doth it please and fill the memory With deeds of brave renown, while on each hand Historic urns and breathing statues rise, And speaking busts! Sweet Scipio, Marius stern, Pompey superb, the spirit-stirring form Of Cæsar raptur'd with the charm of rule And boundless fame; impatient for exploits, His eager eyes upcast, he soars in thought Above all height: and his own Brutus see, Desponding Brutus, dubious of the right, In evil days, of faith, of public weal, Solicitous and sad. Thy next regard Be Tully's graceful attitude; uprais'd, His outstretch'd arm he waves, in act to speak Before the silent masters of the world, And Eloquence arrays him. There behold, Prepar'd for combat in the front of war, The pious brothers; jealous Alba stands In fearful expectation of the strife, And youthful Rome intent: the kindred foes Fall on each other's neck in silent tears; In sorrowful benevolence embrace- Howe'er, they soon unsheath the flashing sword, Their country calls to arms;-now all in vain The mother clasps the knee, and e'en the fair Now weeps in vain; their country calls to arms. Such virtue Clelia, Cocles, Manlius, rous'd: Such were the Fabii, Decii; so inspir'd,
The Scipios battled, and the Gracchi spoke : So rose the Roman state. Me now, of these Deep musing, high ambitious thoughts inflame Greatly to serve my country, distant land, And build me virtuous fame; nor shall the dust Of these fall'n piles with show of sad decay Avert the good resolve, mean argument, The fate alone of matter. Now the brow We gain enraptur'd; beauteously distinct‡ The numerous porticoes and domes upswell, With obelisks and columns interpos'd,
And pine, and fir, and oak: so fair a scene Sees not the dervise from the spiral tomb Of ancient Chammos, while his eye beholds Proud Memphis' relics o'er th' Egyptian plain: Nor hoary hermit from Hymettus' brow,
Hence over airy plains, by crystal founts, That weave their glittering waves with tuneful lapse, Though graceful Athens in the vale beneath.
Among the sleeky pebbles, agate clear, Cerulean ophite, and the flowery vein
Of orient jasper, pleas'd I move along.
And vases boss'd, and huge inscriptive stones,
Along the windings of the Muse's stream, Lucid Ilyssus weeps her silent schools,
† Several statues of the Pagan gods have been convert. ed into images of saints.
↑ From the Palatin hill one sees most of the remarkable antiquities.
And groves, unvisited by bard or sage. Amid the towery ruins, huge, supreme, Th' enormous amphitheatre behold, Mountainous pile! o'er whose capacious womb Pours the broad firmament its varied light; While from the central floor the seats ascend Round above round, slow-widening to the verge A circuit vast and high; nor less had held Imperial Rome, and her attendant realms, When drunk with rule she will'd the fierce delight, And op'd the gloomy caverns, whence out-rush'd Before th' innumerable shouting crowd
The fiery, madded, tyrants of the wilds, Lions and tigers, wolves and elephants, And desperate men, more fell. Abhorr'd intent! By frequent converse with familiar death, To kindle brutal daring apt for war;
To lock the breast, and steel th' obdurate heart, Amid the piercing cries of sore distress Impenetrable. But away thine eye; Behold yon steepy cliff; the modern pile Perchance may now delight, while that, rever'd In ancient days, the page alone declares, Or narrow coin through dim cerulean rust. The fane was Jove's, its spacious golden roof, O'er thick-surrounding temples beaming wide, Appear'd, as when above the morning hills Half the round Sun ascends; and tower'd aloft, Sustain'd by columns huge, innumerous As cedars proud on Canaan's verdant heights Darkening their idols, when Astarte lur'd Too-prosperous Israel from his living strength.
And next regard yon venerable dome, Which virtuous Latium, with erroneous aim, Rais'd to her various deities, and nam'd Pantheon; plain and round; of this our world Majestic emblem; with peculiar grace Before its ample orb, projected stands The many-pillar'd portal: noblest work Of human skill: here, curious architect, If thou essay'st, ambitious, to surpass Palladius, Angelus, or British Jones,
On these fair walls extend the certain scale, And turn th' instructive compass: careful mark How far in hidden art, the noble plain Extends, and where the lovely forms commence Of flowing sculpture: nor neglect to note How range the taper columns, and what weight Their leafy brows sustain: fair Corinth first Boasted their order, which Callimachus (Reclining studious on Asopus' banks Beneath an urn of some lamented nymph) Haply compos'd; the urn with foliage curl'd Thinly conceal'd, the chapiter inform'd.
See the tall obelisks from Memphis old, One stone enormous each, or Thebes convey'd; Like Albion's spires they rush into the skies. And there the temple,t where the summon'd state In deep of night conven'd: e'en yet methinks The vehement orator in rent attire
Persuasion pours, Ambition sinks her crest; And lo the villain, like a troubled sea,
Parent of Happiness, celestial-born; When the first man became a living soul, His sacred genius thou;-be Britain's care; With her, secure, prolong thy lov'd retreat; Thence bless mankind; while yet among her sons E'en yet there are, to shield thine equal laws, Whose bosoms kindle at the sacred names Of Cecil, Raleigh, Walsingham, and Drake. May others more delight in tuneful airs; In masque and dance excel; to sculptur'd stone Give with superior skill the living look; More pompous piles erect, or pencil soft With warmer touch the visionary board: But thou, thy nobler Britons teach to rule; To check the ravage of tyrannic sway; To quell the proud; to spread the joys of peace, And various blessings of ingenious trade. Be these our arts; and ever may we guard, Ever defend thee with undaunted heart! Inestimable good! who giv'st us Truth, Whose hand upleads to light, divinest Truth, Array'd in every charm: whose hand benign Teaches unwearied Toil to clothe the fields, And on his various fruits inscribes the name Of Property: O nobly hail'd of old By thy majestic daughters, Judah fair, And Tyrus and Sidonia, lovely nymphs, And Libya bright, and all-enchanting Greece, Whose numerous towns and isles, and peopled scas, Rejoic'd around her lyre; th' heroic note (Smit with sublime delight) Ausonia caught, And plann'd imperial Rome. Thy hand benign Rear'd up her towery battlements in strength; Bent her wide bridges o'er the swelling stream Of Tuscan Tiber; thine those solemn domes Devoted to the voice of humbler prayer! And thine those pilest undeck'd, capacious, vast, In days of dearth where tender Charity Dispens'd her timely succors to the poor. Thine too those musically-falling founts, To slake the clammy lip; adown they fall, Musical ever; while from yon blue hills, Dim in the clouds, the radiant aqueducts Turn their innumerable arches o'er
The spacious desert, brightening in the Sun, Proud and more proud in their august approach: High o'er irriguous vales and woods and towns, Glide the soft whispering waters in the wind, And here united pour their silver streams Among the figur'd rocks, in murmuring falls, Musical ever. These thy beauteous works: And what beside felicity could tell Of human benefit: more late the rest; At various times their turrets chanc'd to rise, When impious Tyranny vouchsaf'd to smile.
That tosses up her mire! Ever disguis'd,
Behold by Tiber's flood, where modern Romes Couches beneath the ruins: there of old With arms and trophies gleam'd the field of Mars There to their daily sports the noble youth Rush'd emulous; to fling the pointed lance; To vault the steed; or with the kindling wheel In dusty whirlwinds sweep the trembling goal; Or, wrestling, cope with adverse swelling breasts,
Shall Treason walk? Shall proud Oppression yoke Strong grappling arms, close heads, and distant feet;
Self-betray'd Catiline! O Liberty,
The neck of Virtue? Lo the wretch, abash'd,
↑ The Temple of Concord, where the senate met on Catiline's conspiracy.
Or clash the lifted gauntlets: there they form'd Their ardent virtues: in the bossy piles,
The proud triumphal arches; all their wars, Their conquests, honors, in the sculptures live. And see from every gate those ancient roads, With tombs high verg'd, the solemn paths of Fame: Deserve they not regard? O'er whose broad flints Such crowds have roll'd, so many storms of war; So many pomps; so many wondering realms : Yet still through mountains pierc'd, o'er valleys rais'd, In even state, to distant seas around,
They stretch their pavements. Lo, the fane of Peace,*
Built by that prince, who to the trust of power Was honest, the delight of human-kind.
Three nodding aisles remain; the rest a heap Of sand and weeds; her shrines, her radiant roofs, And columns proud, that from her spacious floor, As from a shining sea, majestic rose A hundred foot aloft, like stately beech Around the brim of Dion's glassy lake, Charming the mimic painter: on the walls Hung Salem's sacred spoils; the golden board, And golden trumpets, now conceal'd, entomb'd By the sunk roof-O'er which in distant view Th' Etruscan mountains swell, with ruins crown'd Of ancient towns; and blue Soracte spires, Wrapping his sides in tempests. Eastward hence, Nigh where the Cestian pyramid† divides The mouldering wall, beyond yon fabric huge, Whose dust the solemn antiquarian turns, And thence, in broken sculptures cast abroad, Like Sibyl's leaves, collects the builder's name Rejoic'd, and the green medals frequent found Doom Caracalla to perpetual fame: The stately pines, that spread their branches wide In the dun ruins of its ample halls,‡ Appear but tufts; as may whate'er is high Sink in comparison, minute and vile.
These, and unnumber'd, yet their brows uplift, Rent of their graces; as Britannia's oaks On Merlin's mount, or Snowdon's rugged sides, Stand in the clouds, their branches scatter'd round, After the tempest; Mausoleums, Cirques, Naumachios, Forums; Trajan's column tall,
From whose low base the sculptures wind aloft, And lead through various toils, up the rough steep, Its hero to the skies and his dark towerý
Whose execrable hand the city fir'd,
And while the dreadful conflagration blaz'd,
Where Cæsars, heroes, peasants, hermits, lie, Blended in dust together; where the slave Rests from his labors; where th' insulting proud Resigns his power; the miser drops his hoard; Where human folly sleeps. - There is a mood, (I sing not to the vacant and the young,) There is a kindly mood of melancholy, That wings the soul, and points her to the skies; When tribulation clothes the child of man, When age descends with sorrow to the grave, "Tis sweetly-soothing sympathy to pain, A gently-wakening call to health and ease. How musical! when all-devouring Time, Here sitting on his throne of ruins hoar, While winds and tempests sweep his various lyre How sweet thy diapason, Melancholy! Cool evening comes; the setting Sun displays His visible great round between yon towers, As through two shady cliffs; away, my Muse, Though yet the prospect pleases, ever new In vast variety, and yet delight The many-figur'd sculptures of the path Half beauteous, half effac'd; the traveller Such antique marbles to his native land Oft hence conveys; and every realm and state With Rome's august remains, heroes and gods, Deck their long galleries and winding groves; Yet miss we not th' innumerable thefts, Yet still profuse of graces teems the waste.
Suffice it now th' Esquilian mount to reach With weary wing, and seek the sacred rests Of Maro's humble tenement; a low Plain wall remains; a little sun-gilt heap, Grotesque and wild; the gourd and olive brown Weave the light roof: the gourd and olive fan Their amorous foliage, mingling with the vine, Who drops her purple clusters through the green Here let me lie, with pleasing fancy sooth'd : Here flow'd his fountain; here his laurels grew; Here oft the meek good man, the lofty bard Fram'd the celestial song, or social walk'd With Horace and the ruler of the world: Happy Augustus! who, so well inspir'd, Couldst throw thy pomps and royalties aside, Attentive to the wise, the great of soul, And dignify thy mind. Thrice-glorious days, Auspicious to the Muses! then rever'd, Then hallow'd was the fount, or secret shade,
Play'd to the flames; and Phœbus' letter'd dome; || Or open mountain, or whatever scene And the rough relics of Carine's street,
Where now the shepherd to his nibbling sheep Sits piping with his oaten reed; as erst There pip'd the shepherd to his nibbling sheep, When th' humble roof Anchises' son explor'd Of good Evander, wealth-despising king, Amid the thickets: so revolves the scene; So Time ordains, who rolls the things of pride From dust again to dust. Behold that heap Of mouldering urns (their ashes blown away, Dust of the mighty) the same story tell; And at its base, from whence the serpent glides Down the green desert street, yon hoary monk Laments the same, the vision as he views, The solitary, silent, solemn scene,
* Begun by Vespasian, and finished by Titus.
The poet chose, to tune th' ennobling rhyme Melodious; e'en the rugged sons of war, E'en the rude hinds rever'd the poet's name: But now-another age, alas! is ours- Yet will the Muse a little longer soar, Unless the clouds of care weigh down her wing Since Nature's stores are shut with cruel hand, And each aggrieves his brother; since in vain The thirsty pilgrim at the fountain asks Th' o'erflowing wave-Enough-the plaint disdain
See'st thou yon fane?* e'en now incessant time Sweeps her low mouldering marbles to the dust; And Phœbus' temple, nodding with its woods, Threatens huge ruin o'er the small rotund. 'Twas there beneath a fig-tree's umbrage b.oad, Th' astonish'd swains with reverend awe beheld Thee, O Quirinus, and thy brother-twin,
† The tomb of Cestius, partly within and partly with. Pressing the teat within a monster's grasp
Sportive; while oft the gaunt and rugged wolf Turn'd her stretch'd neck and form'd your tender limbs;
So taught of Jove e'en the fell savage fed Your sacred infancies, your virtues, toils,
The conquests, glories, of th' Ausonian state,
Robust and stout, ye grapple to your hearts,
And little Rome appears. Her cots arise,
Withers each nerve, and opens every pore To painful feeling: flowery bowers they seek (As ether prompts, as the sick sense approves) Or cool Nymphean grots; or tepid baths (Taught by the soft Ionians); they, along The lawny vale, of every beauteous stone,
Wrapp'd in their secret seeds. Each kindred soul, Pile in the roseate air with fond expense :
Green twigs of osier weave the slender walls, Green rushes spread the roofs; and here and there Opens beneath the rock the gloomy cave. Elate with joy Etruscan Tiber views
Her spreading scenes enamelling his waves, Her huts and hollow dells, and flocks and herds, And gathering swains; and rolls his yellow car To Neptune's court with more majestic train.
Her speedy growth alarm'd the states around, Jealous; yet soon, by wondrous virtue won, They sink into her bosom. From the plow Rose her dictators; fought, o'ercame, return'd Yes, to the plow return'd, and hail'd their peers; For then no private pomp, no household state, The public only swell'd the generous breast. Who has not heard the Fabian heroes sung? Dentatus' scars, or Mutius' flaming hand? How Manlius sav'd the Capitol? the choice Of steady Regulus? As yet they stood, Simple of life; as yet seducing wealth Was unexplor'd, and shame of poverty Yet unimagin'd.-Shine not all the fields With various fruitage? murmur not the brooks Along the flowery valleys? They, content, Feasted at Nature's hand, indelicate, Blithe, in their easy taste; and only sought To know their duties; that their only strife, Their generous strife, and greatly to perform. They through all shapes of peril and of pain, Intent on honor, dar'd in thickest death To snatch the glorious deed. Nor Trebia quell'd, Nor Thrasymene, nor Cannæ's bloody field, Their dauntless courage; storming Hannibal In vain the thunder of the battle roll'd, The thunder of the battle they return'd Back on his Punic shores; till Carthage fell, And danger fled afar. The city gleam'd With precious spoils: alas, prosperity! Ah, baneful state! yet ebb'd not all their strength In soft luxurious pleasures; proud desire Of boundless sway, and feverish thirst of gold, Rous'd them again to battle. Beauteous Greece, Torn from her joys, in vain with languid arm Half-rais'd her rusty shield; nor could avail The sword of Dacia, nor the Parthian dart; Nor yet the ear of that fam'd British chief,
Through silver channels glide the vagrant waves, And fall on silver beds crystalline down, Melodious murmuring; while Luxury Over their naked limbs with wanton hand Sheds roses, odors, sheds unheeded bane.
Swift is the flight of wealth; unnumber'd wants, Brood of voluptuousness, cry out aloud Necessity, and seek the splendid bribe. The citron board, the bowl emboss'd with gems, And tender foliage wildly wreath'd around Of seeming ivy, by that artful hand, Corinthian Thericles; whate'er is known Of rarest acquisition; Tyrian garbs, Neptunian Albion's high testaceous food, And flavor'd Chian wines with incense fum'd To slake patrician thirst; for these, their rights In the vile streets they prostitute to sale, Their ancient rights, their dignities, their laws, Their native glorious freedom. Is there none, Is there no villain, that will bind the neck Stretch'd to the yoke? they come; the market throngs But who has most by fraud or force amass'd? Who most can charm corruption with his doles? He be the monarch of the state; and lo! Didius, vile usurer, through the crowd he mounts, Beneath his feet the Roman eagle cowers, And the red arrows fill his grasp uncouth. O Britons, O my countrymen, beware; Gird, gird your hearts; the Romans once were free, Were brave, were virtuous. -Tyranny, howe'er, Deign'd to walk forth awhile in pageant state, And with licentious pleasures fed the rout, The thoughtless many: to the wanton sound Of fifes and drums they danc'd, or in the shade Sung Cæsar, great and terrible in war, Immortal Cæsar! Lo, a god, a god,
He cleaves the yielding skies! Cæsar meanwhile Gathers the ocean pebbles; or the gnat Enrag'd pursues; or at his lonely meal Starves a wide province; tastes, dislikes, and flings To dogs and sycophants. A god, a god!
The flowery shades and shrines obscene return.
But see along the north the tempests swell O'er the rough Alps, and darken all their snows! Sudden the Goth and Vandal, dreaded names, Rush as the breach of waters, whelming all Their domes, their villas; down the festive piles, Down fall their Parian porches, gilded baths,
Which seven brave years, beneath the doubtful wing And roll before the storm in clouds of dust.
Vain end of human strength, of human skill, Conquest, and triumph, and domain, and pomp, And ease, and luxury! O Luxury, Bane of elated life, of affluent states, What dreary change, what ruin is not thine? How doth thy bowl intoxicate the mind! To the soft entrance of thy rosy cave How dost thou lure the fortunate and great! Dreadful attraction! while behind thee gapes Th' unfathomable gulf where Asher lies O'erwhelm'd, forgotten; and high-boasting Cham; And Elam's haughty pomp; and beauteous Greece; And the great queen of Earth, imperial Rome.
* Didius Julianus, who bought the empire.
WILLIAM SHENSTONE, a popular and agreeable the life which he invariably pursued, and which poet, was born at Hales-Owen, Shropshire, in 1714. consisted in improving the picturesque beauties of His father was an uneducated gentleman farmer, the Leasowes, exercising his pen in casual effusions who cultivated an estate of his own, called the Lea- of verse and prose, and cultivating such society as sowes. William, after passing through other in- lay within his reach. The fame of the Leasowes struction, was removed to that of a clergyman at was widely spread by an elaborate description of Solihull, from whom he acquired a fund of classical Dodsley's, which drew multitudes of visitors to the literature, together with a taste for the best English place; and the house being originally only a farm, writers. In 1732 he was entered of Pembroke Col- became inadequate to his grounds, and required enlege, Oxford, where he formed one of a set of young largement. Hence he lay continually under the men who met in the evenings at one another's cham- pressure of narrow circumstances, which preyed bers, and read English works in polite literature. upon his spirits, and rendered him by no means a He also began to exercise his poetical talent upon happy inhabitant of the little Eden he had created. some light topics; but coming to the possession of Gray, from the perusal of his letters, deduces the his paternal property, with some augmentation, he following, perhaps too satirical, account. indulged himself in rural retirement, and forgetting man! he was always wishing for money, for fame, his calls to college residence, he took up his abode and other distinctions; and his whole philosophy at a house of his own, and commenced gentleman. consisted in living against his will in retirement, In 1737 he printed anonymously a small volume of and in a place which his taste had adorned, but juvenile poems, which was little noticed. His first which he only enjoyed when people of note came to visit to London, in 1740, introduced him to the ac- see and commend it."
quaintance of Dodsley, who printed his "Judgment Shenstone died of a fever in February, 1763, in of Hercules," dedicated to his Hagley neighbor, Mr. his fiftieth year, and was interred in the church(afterwards Lord) Lyttleton. It was followed by a yard of Hales-Owen. Monuments to his memory work written before it, "The School-mistress," a were erected by several persons who loved the man, piece in Spenser's style and stanza, the heroine of and esteemed his poetry. Of the latter, the general which was a village dame, supposed to have given opinion is now nearly uniform. It is regarded as him his first instruction. The vein of benevolence commonly correct, elegant, melodious, and tender and good sense, and the touches of the pathetic, by in sentiment, and often pleasing and natural in dewhich this performance is characterized, render it scription, but verging to the languid and feeble. extremely pleasing, and perhaps place it at the head His prose writings, published in a separate volume, of his compositions. display good sense and cultivated taste, and someAfter amusing himself with a few rambles to times contain new and acute observations on manplaces of public resort, Shenstone now sat down to kind.
Auditæ voces, vagitus et ingens, Infantumque animæ flentes in limine primo. Virg.
What particulars in Spenser were imagined most proper for the author's imitation on this occasion, are his language, his simplicity, his manner of description, and a peculiar tenderness of senti- ment remarkable throughout his works.
Ан те! full sorely is my heart forlorn, To think how modest Worth neglected lies, While partial Fame doth with her blast adorn Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp disguise; Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise :
Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try To sound the praise of Merit, ere it dies, Such as I oft have chaunced to espy, Lost in the dreary shades of dull Obscurity.
In every village mark'd with little spire, Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to Fame There dwells in lowly shed, and mean attire, A matron old, whom we School-mistress name; Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame; They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, Aw'd by the power of this relentless dame; And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent,
For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent.
And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, Which Learning near her little dome did stowe, Whilom a twig of small regard to see, Though now so wide its waving branches flow;
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