LXXII.

"Then patient bear the sufferings you have earn'd,
And by these sufferings purify the mind;
Let wisdom be by past misconduct learn'd :
Or pious die, with penitence resign'd;
And to a life more happy and refined,
Doubt not, you shall, new creatures, yet arise.
Till then, you may expect in me to find
One who will wipe your sorrow from your eyes,

One who will soothe your pangs, and wing you to the skies."

LXXIII.

They silent heard, and pour'd their thanks in tears. "For you," resumed the knight with sterner tone, "Whose hard dry hearts th' obdurate demon sears; That villain's gifts will cost you many a groan. In dolorous mansion long you must bemoan His fatal charms, and weep your stains away; Till, soft and pure as infant goodness grown, You feel a perfect change: then, who can say What grace may yet shine forth in Heaven's eternal day?"

LXXIV.

This said, his powerful wand he waved anew :
Instant, a glorious angel-train descends,—
The Charities, to wit, of rosy hue;

Sweet love their looks a gentle radiance lends,
And with seraphic flame compassion blends.
At once, delighted, to their charge they fly:
When, lo! a goodly hospital ascends;

In which they bade each lenient aid be nigh,
That could the sick-bed smooth of that sad company.

LXXV.

It was a worthy, edifying sight, And gives to human-kind peculiar grace, To see kind hands attending day and night, With tender ministry, from place to place. Some prop the head; some from the pallid face Wipe off the faint cold dews weak Nature sheds ; Some reach the healing draught: the whilst, to chase The fear supreme, around their soften'd beds, Some holy man by prayer all opening heaven dispreds.

LXXVI.

Attended by a glad acclaiming train,

Of those he rescued had from gaping hell, Then turn'd the knight; and, to his hall again Soft-pacing, sought of Peace the mossy cell. Yet down his cheeks the gems of pity fell, To see the helpless wretches that remain'd, There left through delves1 and deserts dire to yell : Amazed, their looks with pale dismay were stain'd, And, spreading wide their hands, they meek repentance feign'd.

LXXVII.

But ah! their scorned day of grace was past:
For (horrible to tell!) a desert wild

Before them stretch'd, bare, comfortless, and vast;
With gibbets, bones, and carcases defiled.
There nor trim field nor lively culture smiled;
Nor waving shade was seen, nor fountain fair:
But sands abrupt on sands lay loosely piled,

Through which they floundering toil'd with painful care, Whilst Phoebus smote them sore, and fired the cloudless air.

LXXVIII.

Then, varying to a joyless land of bogs,
The sadden'd country a grey waste appear'd,
Where nought but putrid streams and noisome fogs
For ever hung on drizzly Auster's1 beard;

Or else the ground, by piercing Caurus2 sear'd,
Was jagg'd with frost, or heap'd with glazed snow :
Through these extremes a ceaseless round they steer'd,
By cruel fiends still hurried to and fro,

Gaunt Beggary, and Scorn, with many hell-hounds moe.

LXXIX.

The first was with base dunghill rags yclad,
Tainting the gale, in which they flutter'd light;
Of morbid hue his features, sunk, and sad;
His hollow eyne shook forth a sickly light ;
And o'er his lank jaw-bone, in piteous plight,
His black rough beard was matted rank and vile;
Direful to see a heart-appalling sight!

Meantime foul scurf and blotches him defile;
And dogs, where'er he went, still barked all the while.

LXXX.

The other was a fell despiteful fiend:

Hell holds none worse in baleful bower below:
By pride, and wit, and rage, and rancour, keen'd;
Of man, alike if good or bad, the foc.

With nose up-turn'd, he always made a show
As if he smelt some nauseous scent: his eye
Was cold and keen, like blast from Boreal snow;
And taunts he casten forth most bitterly.

Such were the twain that off drove this ungodly fry.

16 Auster: south-east wind. Caurus:' north-cast wind.

LXXXI.

Even so through Brentford town, a town of mud,
An herd of bristly swine is prick'd along;

The filthy beasts, that never chew the cud,
Still grunt, and squeak, and sing their troublous song,
And oft they plunge themselves the mire among;
But aye the ruthless driver goads them on,
And aye of barking dogs the bitter throng
Makes them renew their unmelodious moan;
Ne ever find they rest from their unresting fone.1

1 Fone:' foe.

Sacred to the Memory

OF

SIR ISAAC NEWTON.

INSCRIBED TO THE

RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.

SHALL the great soul of Newton quit this earth,
To mingle with his stars; and every Muse,
Astonish'd into silence, shun the weight
Of honours due to his illustrious name?

But what can man ?-Even now the sons of light,
In strains high-warbled to seraphic lyre,

Hail his arrival on the coast of bliss.

Yet am not I deterr'd, though high the theme,
And sung to harps of angels; for with you,
Ethereal flames! ambitious, I aspire

In Nature's general symphony to join.

And what new wonders can ye show your guest?
Who, while on this dim spot, where mortals toil,
Clouded in dust, from Motion's simple laws,
Could trace the secret hand of Providence
Wide-working through this universal frame.

Have ye not listen'd while he bound the Suns
And Planets to their spheres? th' unequal task