L'ALLEGRO.
ENCE loathed Melancholy,
Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born,
In Stygian cave forlorn
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights un
Find out fome uncouth cell,
Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings,
And the night-raven sings;
There under ebon shades, and low-brown'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come thou Goddess fair and free, In Heav'n ycleap'd Euphrosyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus at a birth With two fister Graces more To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; Or whether (as some sager sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a Maying, There on beds of violets blue, And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew,
Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his fides.
Come, and trip it as you go
On the light fantastic toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee,
The mountain nymph, fweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honor due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free; To hear the lark begin his flight, And finging startle the dull night, From his watch-tow'r in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to come in spite of forrow, And at my window bid good morrow, Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine:
While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his dames before:
Oft lift'ning how the hounds and horn Chearly rouse the flumb'ring morn, From the fide of fome hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill: Some time walking not unseen By hedge-row elms, on hillocs green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great fun begins his state, Rob'd in flames, and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight, While the plow-man near at hand Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, And the milk-maid fingeth blithe,
And the mower whets his fithe,
And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale.
Strait mine eye hath caught new pleasures
Whilst the landskip round it measures, Russet lawns, and fallows gray, Where the nibbling flocks do ftray, Mountains on whose barren breaft The lab'ring clouds do often reft,
Meadows trim with daifies pied,
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. Towers and battlements it fees Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The Cynofure of neighb'ring eyes.
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes,
From betwixt two aged oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrfis met, Are at their favory dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; And then in haste her bow'r she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; Or if the earlier season lead To the tann'd haycock in the mead.
Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocond rebecs found
To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the chequer'd shade; And young and old come forth to play On a funshine holy-day, Till the live-long day-light fail; Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
With stories told of many a feat, How faery Mab the junkets eat, She was pincht, and pull'd she said, And he by friers lanthorn led Tells how the drudging Goblin swet, To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flale hath thresh'd the corn,
That ten day-lab'rers could not end; Then lies him down the lubbar fiend, And stretch'd out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength, And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings.
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, By whisp'ring winds foon lull'd afleep. Towred cities please us then, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit, or arms, while both contend To win her grace, whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In faffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry, Such sights as youthful poets dream On fummer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Johnson's learned fock be on, Or sweetest Shakespear, fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs,
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