And on his shield kind Jonathan imparts To his soul's friend, his robes, and princely name, These led the vanguard; and a hundred moe In goodly arms a fresh and lovely Swain*, Vaunting himself Love's twin, but yonger brother: Well mought it be, for e'en their very mother With pleasing errour oft mistook one for the other. XXXVIII. As when fair Paris gave that golden ball, A thousand doubts ran in his stagg'ring breast: All lik'd him well, fain would he give it all: Each better seems, and still the last seems best : Like them, their armour seem'd full near of kin : His higher soul to Heav'n; the younger twin About him troop'd the poor with num'rous trains, * Charity. With kindest words and succour entertains; If other clothes he lack'd, his own he would divide. To rogues, his gate was shut; but open lay And in his narrow cabin oft remain ; Whom Heav'n and Earth, and all the world cannot contain. XLII. His table still was fill'd with wholesome meat, Not to provoke, but quiet appetite; And round about the hungry freely eat, With plenteous cates cheering their feeble sprite : With gracious eye looks down upon his blessed store. Behind attend him in an uncouth-wise A troop with little caps and shaved head; Such whilome was enfranchis'd bondmen's dress, New freed from cruel masters' servile dread : These had he lately bought from captive chain; Hence they his triumph sing with joyful strain, And on his head due praise, and thousand blessings rain. XLIV. He was a father to the fatherless, To widows he supply'd a husband's care; Nor would he heap up woe to their distress, Once ev'ry week he on his progress went, The sick to visit, and those meagre swains, Clogg'd with cold iron, press'd with heavy chains : And when the dead by cruel tyrant's spite, Lie out to rav'nous birds and beasts expos'd, His yearnful heart pitying that wretched sight, In seemly graves their weary flesh enclos'd, And strew'd with dainty flow'd the lowly hearse ; So once that royal maid* fierce Thebes beguil'd, XLVIII. Yet feels she neither sweat, nor irksome pain, Till now his grave was fully finished; Antigone daughter of Oedipus, contrary to the ediet of Creon, buries Polynices. Then on his wounds her cloudy eyes 'gin rain, With hundred varied plaints she often cry'd, Oh, had I died for thee, or with thee might have died!' Ay me! my ever wrong'd and banish'd brother, L. But whither, woful maid, have thy complaints With fellow-passion drawn my feeling moan? But thus this Love deals with those murder'd saints; Weeps with the sad, and sighs with those that groan. But now in that beech grove we'll safely play, And in those shadows mock the boiling ray; Which yet increases more with the decreasing day." CANTO X. I. THE shepherds to the woody mount withdrew, Where hillock seats, shades yield a canopy; Whose top with violets dy'd all in blue, Might seem to make a little azure sky : And that round hill, which their weak heads maintain❜d, The weight of all the Heav'ns, which sore his shoulders pain'd. II. And here and there sweet primrose scattered, Within this earthly Heav'n the shepherds play, Till the declining Sun, and elder day Abate their flaming heat, and youthful might: The sheep had left their shades, to mind their meat, Then all returning to their former seat, Thirsil again began his weary song repeat. IV. "Great pow'r of Love! with what commanding fire Dost thou enflame the world's wide regiment, And kindly heat in every heart inspire! Nothing is free from thy sweet government: |