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A certaip music, never known before, Here lulld 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 Æolus it
hight. Ab 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:
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,
Ne could it e'er such melting forms display,
No, fair illusions ! artful phantoms, no !
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,downblack 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-lóst 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
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,
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.
Ne of its rigor will he bate a jot,
Straight from the filth of this low grub, behold!
His father's ghost from limbo-lake, the while, Sees this, which more damuation does upon him pile.
This globe pourtray'd the race of learned men,
Praised to be when you can hear no more,
store. Then would a splendid city rise to view, With carts, and cars, and coaches roaring all. Wide pour'd abroad behold the giddy crew: See how they dash along from wall to wall ! At ev'ry door, hark, how they thund'ring call! Good Lord ! what can this giddy rout excite? Why on each other with fell tooth to fall;
A neighbour's fortune, fame, or peace to blight, And make new tiresome parties for the coming night! The puzzling sons of party next appear'd, In dark cabals and nightly juntos met; And now they whisper'd close,now shrugging rear'd The important shoulder; then, as if to get New light, their twinkling eyes were inward set. No sooner Lucifer recals affairs, Than forth they various rush in mighty fret! When, lo! push'd up to pow'r, and crown'd their
cares, In comes another set, and kicketh them down stairs, But what most shew'd the vanity of life, Was to behold the nations all on fire, In cruel broils engag'd, and deadly strife: Most Christian kings, enflam'd by black desire, With honourable ruffians in their hire, Cause war to rage, and blood around to pour : of this sad work when each begins to tire,
They sit them down just where they were before, Till for new scenes of woe peace shall their force
To number up the thousands dwelling here,
For place or pension, laid in decent row;
Of all the gentle tenants of the place,
Of the fine stores he nothing would impart, Which or boon nature gave, or nature-painting art.
To noon-tide shades incontinent he ran, Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound. Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began, Amid the broom he bask'd him on the ground, Where the wild thyme and camomoil are found: There would he linger, till the latest ray Of light sat trembling on the welkin's bound; Then homeward thro' the twilight shadows stray, Sauntering and slow. So had he passed many a day.
Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they past:
Ten thousand great ideas fill'd his mind;