Without the gate he plac'd two other warders, But such strange force hath her enchanting art, Thus (with their help) by her the sacred Muses She Heav'n to Earth in music often brings, And Earth to Heav'n :-but oh, how sweet she sings, When in rich Grace's key, she tunes poor Nature's strings. LXI. Thus Orpheus won his lost Euridice; Whom some deaf snake, that could no music hear, Or some blind newt, that could no beauty see, Thinking to kiss, kill'd with his forked spear: He, when his plaints on earth were vainly spent, And charm'd the meagre ghosts with mournful blandishment. There what his mother, fair Calliope, From Phœbus' harp and Muses spring had brought him; What sharpest grief for his Euridice, And love, redoubling grief, had newly taught him, Bent all the rig'rous pow'rs of stubborn Hell: Th' amazed shades came flocking round about, Nor car'd they now to pass the Stygian ford : All Hell came running there (a hideous rout) The hungry Tantal might have fill'd him now; Ixion's turning wheel at length stood still; Tir'd Sisyphus sat on his resting stone, And hop'd at length his labour done for ever: The vulture feeding on his pleasing moan, Glutted with music, scorn'd grown Tityus' liver. The Furies flung their snaky whips away, That treble dog, whose voice ne'er quiet fears And softly whining pitied much his wrongs; And now first silent at those dainty songs, Oft wish'd himself more ears, and fewer mouths and tongues LXVII. At length return'd with his Euridice; But with this law, never to turn his eyes 1 Till he was past the bounds of Tartary; Love is love's law; love but to love is tied). Ah, wretch:-Euridice he saw,-and lost,-and died. All so, who strives from grave of hellish night, And longs to see what he had left; his sore His helps and hopes much less, his crime and judgment more. But why do I enlarge my tedious song, And tire my flagging Muse with weary flight? And that great prince, these reeds are all too vile. See Phlegon drenched in the liquid main, Allays his thirst, and cools his flaming car; Vesper fair Cynthia ushers, and her train: See, th' apish Earth hath lighted many a star, Home then my flocks, home shepherd's, home,'tis night : My song with day is done; my Muse is set with light." LXXI. By this the gentle boys had framed well A myrtle garland mix'd with conq'ring bay, *The intellect. From whose fit march issued a pleasing smile, With which they crown'd their honour'd Thirsil's head; Ah! blessed shepherd swain! ah happy meed! While all his fellows chant on slender pipes of reed. THE CANTO (IV I. HE hours had now unlock'd the gate of day, Hasting with youthful Cephalus to play, The gentle shepherds on a hillock plac'd, (Whose shady head a beechy garland crown'd) View'd all their flocks that on the pastures graz'd : Then down they sit, while Thenot 'gan the round; Thenot! was never fairer boy among The gentle lads, that to the Muses throng By Camus' yellow streams, learn tune their pipe and song, III. "See, Thirsil, see the shepherd's expectation; Why then, ah! why sitt'st thou so silent there? We long to know that Island's happy nation; Oh, do not leave thy Isle unpeopled here. Tell us who brought, and whence these colonies; What laws maintain their peace; what wars, and victories?" "Thenot, my dear! that simple fisher-swain, |