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Alas! the change! from scenes of joy and rest, To this dark den, where Sickness toss'd alway. Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep opprest, Stretch'd on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay, Heaving his sides, and snored night and day; To stir him from his traunce it was not eath, And his half-open'd eyne he shut straightway: He led, I wot, the softest way to death,

And taught withouten pain and strife to yield the

breath.

Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound,
Soft-swoin and pale, here lay the Hydropsy:
Unwieldy man; with belly monstrous round,
For ever fed with watery supply;

For still he drank, and yet he still was dry.
And moping here did Hypochondria sit,
Mother of Spleen, in robes of various dye,
Who vexed was full oft with ugly fit;

And some her frantic deem'd, and some her deem'd

a wit.

A lady proud she was, of ancient blood,
Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low:

/ She felt, or fancied in her fluttering mood,
All the diseases which the spittles know,
And sought all physic which the shops bestow.
And still new leeches and new drugs would try,
Her humor ever wavering to and fro;

For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry, Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why.

Fast by her side a listless maiden pin'd, With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings; Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind, Yet lov'd in secret all forbidden things. And here the Tertian shakes his chilling wings; The sleepless Gout here counts the crowing cocks, A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings; Whilst Apoplexy cramm'd Intemperance knocks Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox.

CANTO II.

The knight of arts and industry. And his achievements fair; That by his castle's overthrow, Secur'd, and crowned were.

ESCAP'D the castle of the sire of sin,
Ah! where shall I so sweet a dwelling find?
For all around, without, and all within,
Nothing save what delightful was and kind,
Of goodness savoring and a tender mind,
E'er rose to view. But now another strain,
Of doleful note, alas! remains behind:

I now must sing of pleasure turn'd to pain, And of the false enchanter, Indolence, complain.

Is there no patron to protect the Muse,
And fence for her Parnassus' barren soil?
To every labor its reward accrues,
And they are sure of bread who swink and moil;
But a fell tribe th' Aonian hive despoil,
As ruthless wasps oft rob the painful bee:
Thus while the laws not guard that noblest toil,
Ne for the other Muses meed decree,

They praised are alone, and starve right merrily.

I care not, Fortune, what you me deny: You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve: Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.

Come then, my Muse, and raise a bolder song : Come, lig no more upon the bed of sloth, Dragging the lazy languid line along, Fond to begin, but still to finish loth, Thy half-writ scrolls all eaten by the moth: Arise, and sing that generous imp of Fame, Who with the sons of softness nobly wroth, To sweep away this human lumber came, Or in a chosen few to rouse the slumbering flame.

In Fairy-land there liv'd a knight of old,
Of feature stern, Selvaggio well yclep'd,
A rough unpolish'd man, robust and bold,
But wondrous poor: he neither sow'd nor reap'd
Ne stores in summer for cold winter heap'd;
In hunting all his days away he wore;
Now scorch'd by June, now in November steep'd,
Now pinch'd by biting January sore,

He still in woods pursued the libbard and the boar.

As he one morning, long before the dawn, Prick'd through the forest to dislodge his prey, Deep in the winding bosom of a lawn, With wood wild-fring'd, he mark'd a taper's ray, That from the beating rain, and wintery fray, Did to a lonely cot his steps decoy; There, up to earn the needments of the day, He found dame Poverty, nor fair nor coy: Her he compress'd, and fill'd her with a lusty boy

Amid the greenwood shade this boy was bred,
And grew at last a knight of muchel fame,
Of active mind and vigorous lustyhed,
The Knight of Arts and Industry by name.
Earth was his bed, the boughs his roof did frame;
He knew no beverage but the flowing stream;
His tasteful well-earn'd food the sylvan-game,
Or the brown fruit with which the woodlands teem
The same to him glad summer, or the winter breme.

So pass'd his youthful morning, void of care,
Wild as the colts that through the commons run
For him no tender parents troubled were,
He of the forest seem'd to be the son,
And certes had been utterly undone;
But that Minerva pity of him took,
With all the gods that love the rural wonne,
That teach to tame the soil and rule the crook;

Ne did the sacred Nine disdain a gentle look.

Of fertile genius him they nurtur'd well,
In every science, and in every art,
By which mankind the thoughtless brutes excel,
That can or use, or joy, or grace impart,
Disclosing all the powers of head and heart:
Ne were the goodly exercises spar'd,
That brace the nerves, or make the limbs alert,
And mix elastic force with firmness hard:

Was never knight on ground mote be with him compar'd.

Sometimes, with early morn, he mounted gay
The hunter-steed, exulting o'er the dale,
And drew the roseate breath of orient day;
Sometimes, retiring to the secret vale,
Yclad in steel, and bright with burnish'd mail,
He strain'd the bow, or toss'd the sounding spear,
Or darting on the goal outstripp'd the gale,
Or wheel'd the chariot in its mid career,

Or strenuous wrestled hard with many a tough com

peer.

At other times he pry'd through Nature's store,
Whate'er she in th' ethereal round contains,
Whate'er she hides beneath her verdant floor,
The vegetable and the mineral reigns:
Or else he scann'd the globe, those small domains,
Where restless mortals such a turmoil keep,
Its seas, its floods, its mountains, and its plains;
But more he search'd the mind, and rous'd from
sleep

Those moral seeds whence we heroic actions reap.

Nor would he scorn to stoop from high pursuits Of heavenly Truth, and practise what she taught. Vain is the tree of knowledge without fruits. Sometimes in hand the spade or plow he caught, Forth-calling all with which boon Earth is fraught; Sometimes he ply'd the strong mechanic tool, Or rear'd the fabric from the finest draught; And oft he put himself to Neptune's school, Fighting with winds and waves on the vext ocean pool.

To solace then these rougher toils, he try'd
To touch the kindling canvas into life;
With Nature his creating pencil vied,
With Nature joyous at the mimic strife:
Or, to such shapes as grac'd Pygmalion's wife,
He hew'd the marble; or, with varied fire,
He rous'd the trumpet and the martial fife,
Or bade the lute sweet tenderness inspire,
Or verses fram'd that well might wake Apollo's lyre.

Accomplish'd thus he from the woods issued,
Full of great aims, and bent on bold emprize;
The work, which long he in his breast had brew'd,
Now to perform he ardent did devise;
To wit, a barbarous world to civilize.
Earth was till then a boundless forest wild;
Nought to be seen but savage wood, and skies;
No cities nourish'd arts, no culture smil'd,

No government, no laws, no gentle manners mild.

A rugged wight, the worst of brutes, was man;
On his own wretched kind he, ruthless, prey'd :
The strongest still the weakest over-ran;
In every country mighty robbers sway'd,
And guile and ruffian force were all their trade.
Life was a scene of rapine, want, and woe;
Which this brave knight, in noble anger, made
To swear, he would the rascal rout o'erthrow,
For, by the powers divine, it should no more be so!

It would exceed the purport of my song,
To say how this best Sun from orient climes
Came beaming life and beauty all along,
Before him chasing indolence and crimes.
Still as he pass'd, the nations he sublimes,
And calls forth arts and virtues with his ray:
Then Egypt, Greece, and Rome, their golden times,

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But now, alas! we live too late in time:
Our patrons now ev'n grudge that little claim,
Except to such as sleek the soothing rhyme;
And yet, forsooth, they wear Mæcenas' name,
Poor sons of puft-up vanity, not fame.
Unbroken spirits, cheer! still, still remains
Th' eternal patron, Liberty; whose flame,
While she protects, inspires the noblest strains.
The best, and sweetest far, are toil-created gains.

When as the knight had fram'd, in Britain-land,
A matchless form of glorious government,
In which the sovereign laws alone command,
Laws 'stablish'd by the public free consent,
Whose majesty is to the sceptre lent;
When this great plan, with each dependent art,
Was settled firm, and to his heart's content,

Then sought he from the toilsome scene to part, And let life's vacant eve breathe quiet through the heart.

For this he chose a farm in Deva's vale,
Where his long alleys peep'd upon the main.
In this calm seat he drew the healthful gale,
Here mix'd the chief, the patriot, and the swain.
The happy monarch of his sylvan train,
Here, sided by the guardians of the fold,

He walk'd his rounds, and cheer'd his blest domain!

His days, the days of unstain'd nature, roll'd, Replete with peace and joy, like patriarchs of old.

Witness, ye lowing herds, who gave him milk;
Witness, ye flocks, whose woolly vestments far
Exceed soft India's cotton, or her silk;
Witness, with autumn charg'd, the nodding car,
That homeward came beneath sweet evening's

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Of public virtue much he dull'd the sense, Ev'n much of private; ate our spirit out, And fed our rank luxurious vices: whence The land was overlaid with many a lout;

Not as old Fame reports, wise, generous, bold, and

stout.

A rage of pleasure madden'd every breast,
Down to the lowest lees the ferment ran:
To his licentious wish each must be blest,
With joy be fever'd; snatch it as he can.
Thus Vice the standard rear'd; her arrier-ban
Corruption call'd, and loud she gave the word,
"Mind, mind yourselves! why should the vulgar

man,

The lackey, be more virtuous than his lord? Enjoy this span of life! 'tis all the gods afford."

The tidings reach'd to where, in quiet hall,
The good old knight enjoy'd well-earn'd repose.
"Come, come, sir Knight! thy children on thee call
Come, save us yet, ere ruin round us close!
The demon Indolence thy toils o'erthrows."
On this the noble color stain'd his cheeks,
Indignant, glowing through the whitening snows
Of venerable eld; his eye full speaks

His ardent soul, and from his couch at once he breaks.

"I will," he cried, "so help me God! destroy
That villain Archimage." - His page then straigh
He to him call'd, a fiery-footed boy,
Benempt Dispatch. "My steed be at the gate;
My bard attend; quick, bring the net of Fate."
This net was twisted by the sisters three;
Which when once cast o'er harden'd wretch, too

late

Repentance comes; replevy cannot be From the strong iron grasp of vengeful Destiny.

He came, the bard, a little druid-wight, Of wither'd aspect; but his eye was keen, With sweetness mix'd. In russet gown bedight As is his sister* of the copses green, He crept along, unpromising of mien. Gross he who judges so. His soul was fair, Bright as the children of yon azure sheen. True comeliness, which nothing can impair, Dwells in the mind; all else is vanity and glare.

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He pranc'd along, disdaining gate or bar.
Meantime, the bard on milk-white palfrey rode;
An honest sober beast, that did not mar
His meditations, but full softly trode;

And much they moraliz'd as thus yfere they yode

They talk'd of virtue, and of human bliss. What else so fit for man to settle well? And still their long researches met in this, This truth of truths, which nothing can refel: "From virtue's fount the purest joys out-well, Sweet rills of thought that cheer the conscious soul;

While vice pours forth the troubled streams of Hell, The which, howe'er disguis'd, at last with dole Will, through the tortur'd breast, their fiery torrent roll."

At length it dawn'd, that fatal valley gay,
O'er which high wood-crown'd hills their summits

rear.

On the cool height awhile our palmers stay, And spite ev'n of themselves their senses cheer; Then to the wizard's wonne their steps they steer. Like a green isle, it broad beneath them spread, With gardens round, and wandering currents clear, And tufted groves to shade the meadow bed, Sweet airs and song; and without hurry all seem'd glad.

"As God shall judge me, knight, we must forgive" (The half-enraptur'd Philomelus cried) "The frail good man deluded here to live, And in these groves his musing fancy hide. Ah! nought is pure. It cannot be denied, That virtue still some tincture has of vice, And vice of virtue. What should then betide But that our charity be not too nice?

Come, let us those we can to real bliss entice."

"Ay, sicker," quoth the knight, "all flesh is frail,
To pleasant sin and joyous dalliance bent;
But let not brutish vice of this avail,
And think to 'scape deserved punishment.
Justice were cruel weakly to relent;
From Mercy's self she got her sacred glaive;
Grace be to those who can, and will, repent;
But penance long, and dreary, to the slave,

Who must in floods of fire his gross foul spirit lave."

Thus, holding high discourse, they came to where The cursed carle was at his wonted trade; Still tempting heedless men into his snare, In witching wise, as I before had said. But when he saw, in goodly gear array'd, The grave majestic knight approaching nigh, And by his side the bard so sage and staid, His countenance fell; yet oft his anxious eye Mark'd them, like wily fox who roosted cock doth spy.

Nathless, with feign'd respect, he bade give back The rabble-rout, and welcom'd them full kind; Struck with the noble twain, they were not slack His orders to obey, and fall behind. Then he resum'd his song; and unconfin'd, Pour'd all his music, ran through all his strings: With magic dust their eyne he tries to blind, And virtue's tender airs o'er weakness flings. What pity base his song who so divinely sings!

Elate in thought, he counted them his own, They listen'd so intent with fix'd delight: But they instead, as if transmew'd to stone, Marvell'd he could with such sweet art unite The lights and shades of manners, wrong and right. Meantime, the silly crowd the charm devour, Wide pressing to the gate. Swift on the knight He darted fierce, to drag him to his bower, Who backening shunn'd his touch, for well he knew

its power.

As in throng'd amphitheatre of old, The wary Retiarius trapp'd his foe; Ev'n so the knight, returning on him bold, At once involv'd him in the net of woe, Whereof I mention made not long ago. Enrag'd at first, he scorn'd so weak a jail, And leapt, and flew, and flounced to and fro; But when he found that nothing could avail, He set him felly down, and gnaw'd his bitter nail

Alarm'd, th' inferior demons of the place
Rais'd rueful shrieks and hideous yells around,
Black stormy clouds deform'd the welkin's face,
And from beneath was heard a wailing sound,
As of infernal sprites in cavern bound;
A solemn sadness every creature strook,

And lightnings flash'd, and horror rock'd the ground:

Huge crowds on crowds out-pour'd, with blemish'd look,

As if on time's last verge this frame of things had shook.

Soon as the short-liv'd tempest was yspent, Steam'd from the jaws of vex'd Avernus' hole, And hush'd the hubbub of the rabblement, Sir Industry the first calm moment stole. "There must," he cried, "amid so vast a shoal, Be some who are not tainted at the heart, Not poison'd quite by this same villain's bowl: Come then, my bard, thy heavenly fire impart; Touch soul with soul, till forth the latent spirit start

The bard obey'd; and taking from his side,
Where it in seemly sort depending hung,
His British harp, its speaking strings he tried,
The which with skilful touch he deftly strung,
Till tinkling in clear symphony they rung.
Then, as he felt the Muses come along,
Light o'er the chords his raptur'd hand he flung,
And play'd a prelude to his rising song:

The whilst, like midnight mute, ten thousands round

him throng.

Thus, ardent, burst his strain,

"Ye helpless race,
Dire-laboring here to smother reason's ray,
That lights our Maker's image in our face,
And gives us wide o'er Earth unquestion'd sway,
What is th' ador'd Supreme Perfection, say?
What, but eternal never-resting soul,
Almighty power, and all-directing day;
By whom each atom stirs, the planets roll;
Who fills, surrounds, informs, and agitates the whole

"Come, to the beaming God your hearts unfold!
Draw from its fountain life! 'tis thence, alone,
We can excel. Up from unfeeling mould,
To seraphs burning round th' Almighty's throne,

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"It was not by vile loitering in ease
That Greece obtain'd the brighter palm of art,
That soft yet ardent Athens learnt to please,
To keen the wit, and to sublime the heart,
In all supreme! complete in every part!
It was not thence majestic Rome arose,
And o'er the nations shook her conquering dart:
For sluggard's brow the laurel never grows; /
Renown is not the child of indolent repose. /

"Had unambitious mortals minded nought,
But in loose joy their time to wear away;
Had they alone the lap of dalliance sought,
Pleas'd on her pillow their dull heads to lay,
Rude Nature's state had been our state to-day;
No cities e'er their towery fronts had rais'd,
No arts had made us opulent and gay;

With brother-brutes the human race had graz'd; None e'er had soar'd to fame, none honor'd been,

none prais'd.

"Great Homer's song had never fir'd the breast
To thirst of glory, and heroic deeds;
Sweet Maro's Muse, sunk in inglorious rest,
Had silent slept amid the Mincian reeds:
The wits of modern time had told their beads,
And monkish legions been their only strains ;
Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapt in weeds,
Our Shakspeare stroll'd and laugh'd with War-
wick swains,

Ne had my master Spenser charm'd his Mulla's plains.

"Dumb too had been the sage historic Muse, And perish'd all the sons of ancient fame; Those starry lights of virtue, that diffuse Through the dark depth of time their vivid flame, Had all been lost with such as have no name. Who then had scorn'd his ease for others' good? Who then had toil'd rapacious men to tame? Who in the public breach devoted stood,

And for his country's cause been prodigal of blood?

"But should your hearts to fame unfeeling be,
If right I read, your pleasure all require:
Then hear how best may be obtain'd this fee,
How best enjoy'd this nature's wide desire.
Toil, and be glad! let Industry inspire
Into your quicken'd limbs her buoyant breath!
Who does not act is dead; absorpt entire
In miry sloth, no pride, no joy he hath:

O leaden-hearted men to be in love with death!

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"But here, instead, is foster'd every ill, Which or distemper'd minds or bodies know. Come then, my kindred spirits! do not spill Your talents here. This place is but a show, Whose charms delude you to the den of woe: Come, follow me, I will direct you right, Where pleasure's roses, void of serpents, grow, Sincere as sweet; come, follow this good knight, And you will bless the day that brought him to your sight.

"Some he will lead to courts, and some to camps; To senates some, and public sage debates, Where, by the solemn gleam of midnight-lamps, The world is pois'd, and manag'd mighty states; To high discovery some, that new-creates The face of Earth; some to the thriving mart; Some to the rural reign, and softer fates; To the sweet Muses some, who raise the heart; All glory shall be yours, all nature, and all art.

"There are, I see, who listen to my lay, Who wretched sigh for virtue, but despair. All may be done,' methinks I hear them say, Ev'n death despis'd by generous actions fair; All, but for those who to these bowers repair, Their every power dissolv'd in luxury, To quit of torpid sluggishness the lair, And from the powerful arms of sloth get free. "Tis rising from the dead :-Alas!-it cannot be !"

"Would you then learn to dissipate the band Of these huge threatening difficulties dire, That in the weak man's way like lions stand, His soul appal, and damp his rising fire? Resolve, resolve, and to be men aspire. Exert that noblest privilege, alone, Here to mankind indulg'd: control desire: Let godlike Reason, from her sovereign throne, Speak the commanding word-I will and it is done.

"Heavens! can you then thus waste, in shameful wise,

Your few important days of trial here?
Heirs of eternity! yborn to rise
Through endless states of being, still more near
To bliss approaching, and perfection clear,

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