« EelmineJätka »
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 thro' ev'ry 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 Persian land? Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread, And couches stretch around in seemly band; And endless pillows rise to prop the head; So that each spacious room was one full-swelling bed.
And ev'ry 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, 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 rooms with costly tapestry were hung,
Pour'd forth at large the sweetly tortur'd 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 pleas'd the most, where, by a cunning hand, Depainted was the patriarchal age;
What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land, And pastur'd 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 sylvan war to wage, And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed: Blest sons of Nature they! true golden age indeed!
Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls,
Each sound too here to languishment inclin'd,
The list ning 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 side-long, to the gently-waving wind, To lay the well-tun'd instrument reclin'd; From which with airy flying fingers light, Beyond each mortal touch the most refin'd, The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight: Whence, with just cause, the Harp of Eolus it hight.
Ah me! what hand can touch the strings so fine? Who up the lofty diapason roll
Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine,
Such the gay splendour, the luxurious state
Held their bright court, where was of ladies store :
And music lent new gladness to the morning air.
Near the pavilions where we slept, still ran
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,
So fleece with clouds, the pure etherial space; Ne could it e'er such melting forms display, As loose on flow'ry beds all languishingly lay.
No, fair illusions! artful phantoms, no!
Than these same guileful angel-seeming sprites, Who thus in dreams voluptuous, soft, and bland, Pour'd all th' Arabian heaven upon our nights, And bless'd them oft besides with more refin'd delights.
They were, in sooth, a most enchanting train,
With evil good, and strew with pleasure pain.
Ye guardian spirits, to whom man is dear,
And o'er the blank of sleep diffuse a bloom:
Or, are you sportive? Bid the morn of youth
To cares estrang'd, and manhood's thorny ways.
One great amusement of our household was,
Run bustling to and fro with foolish haste,
Of Vanity the mirror this was call'd.
Firm to this scoundrel-maxim keepeth he,
Till it has quench'd his fire, and banished his pot.
Straight from the filth of this low grub, behold! Comes flutt'ring forth a gaudy spendthrift heir, All glossy gay, enamell'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 damuation does upon him pile.