Fired that the house rejects him, 'Sdeath, I'll print it, All my demurs but double his attacks; Why did I write? What sin to me unknown I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came : No duty broke, no father disobeyed: The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wię To help me through this long disease, my life, To second, Arbuthnot! thy are and care, And teach the being you preses ed to bear. THOMSON. FROM "THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE." IN lonely dale, fast by a river's side, With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, Than whom a fiend more fell is no where found. Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrowned Was nought around but images of rest, Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between, And flowery beds that slumberous influence cast, From poppies breathed, and beds of pleasant green, Where never yet was creeping creature seen. Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets played, And hurled every where their waters sheen; That as they bickered through the sunny glade, Tho' restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. Joined to the prattle of the purling rills, Full in the passage of the vale above, Where nought but shadowy forms were seen to move, And up the hills, on either side, a wood Of blackening pines, ay waving to and fro, The murm'ring main was heard, and scarcely heard to flow A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was, The landscape such, inspiring perfect ease, Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight) Close hid his castle 'mid embowering trees, That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright, And made a kind of chequered day and night; Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate, Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight Was placed; and, to his lute, of cruel fate And labour harsh complained, lamenting man's estate. ** The doors, that knew no shrill alarming bell, Ne cursed knocker, plied by villain's hand, Self-opened into halls, where, who can tell What elegance and grandeur wide expand; The pride of Turkey and of Persia land? Soft quilts on quilts, carpets on carpets spread, And couches stretched around in seemly band And endless pillows rise to prop the head; So that each spacious room was one full swelling bed. Each sound too here to languishment inclined, At distance rising oft, by small degrees, A certain music, never known before, Here lulled the pensive, melancholy mind. Full easily obtained. Behoves no more, But sidelong, to the gentle waving wind, To lay the well tuned instrument reclined; From which, with airy flying fingers light, Beyond each mortal touch the most refined, The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight: Whence, with just cause, the harp of Eolus it hight ** 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 pall. And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams, Raising a world of gayer tinct and grace; O'er which were shadowy cast elysian gleams, That played, 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 ethereal space; Ne could it e'er such melting forms display, As loose on flowery beds all languishingly lay. |