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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,
Where was enwoven 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 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,
Bade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes rise,
Or autumn's varied shades imbrown the walls:
Now the black tempest strikes th' 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 Lorrain light-touch'd with soft'ning hue,
Or savage Rosa dash'd, or learned Poussin drew.

Each sound too here to languishment inclin'd,
Lull'd the weak bosom, and induced ease.
Aerial music in the warbling wind,
At distance rising oft, by small degrees
Nearer and nearer came, till o'er the trees
It hung, and breath'd such soul-dissolving airs,
As did, alas! with 'soft perdition please:
Entangled deep in its enchanting snares,

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,
Then let them down again into the soul?
Now rising love they fann'd; now pleasing dole
They breath'd, 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, threat'ning, 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 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!
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 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,
Ev'n 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 gulphs,where sullen waters sleep,
Or hold him clamb'ring 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 midnightgloom:
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, awhile, oh lend us from the tomb
Those long-lost friends for whom in love we smart,
And fill with pious awe and joy-mixt 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 estrang'd, 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 wand'ring 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 penurie;
Most like to carcase pitch'd on gallow-tree.
A penny saved is a penny got:"

Firm to this scoundrel-maxim keepeth he,
Ne of its rigor 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 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.

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