CANTO II.

The Knight of Arts and Industry,
And his achievements fair;
That, by this Castle's overthrow,
Secured, and crowned were.

I.

ESCAPED the Castle of the sire of sin,
Ah! where shall I so sweet a dwelling find?
For, all around, without, and all within,
Nothing save what delightful was and kind,
Of goodness savouring and a tender mind,
E'er rose to view. But now another strain,
Of doleful note, alas! remains behind :

I now must sing of pleasure turn'd to pain,
And of the false enchanter, Indolence, complain.

II.

Is there no patron to protect the Muse,
And fence for her Parnassus' barren soil?

To every labour its reward accrues,

And they are sure of bread who swink and moil;
But a fell tribe th' Aönian hive despoil,

As ruthless wasps oft rob the painful bee:
Thus, while the laws not guard that noblest toil,
Ne for the Muses other meed decree,

They praised are alone, and starve right merrily.

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III.

I care not, Fortune, what you me deny : You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve. Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave : Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.

IV.

Come, then, my Muse, and raise a bolder song: Come, lig no more upon the bed of sloth, Dragging the lazy, languid line along, Fond to begin, but still to finish loath, Thy half-writ scrolls all eaten by the moth. Arise, and sing that generous imp of fame Who, with the sons of softness nobly wroth, To sweep away this human lumber came, Or in a chosen few to rouse the slumbering flame.

V.

In Fairy-land there lived a knight of old,
Of feature stern, Selvaggio well yclep'd,
A rough, unpolish'd man, robust and bold,
But wondrous poor: he neither sow'd nor reap'd,
Ne stores in summer for cold winter heap'd;
In hunting all his days away he wore ;

Now scorch'd by June, now in November steep'd,
Now pinch'd by biting January sore,

He still in woods pursued the libbard and the boar.

VI.

As he one morning, long before the dawn,
Prick'd through the forest to dislodge his prey,
Deep in the winding bosom of a lawn,

With wood wild-fringed, he mark'd a taper's ray, -
That from the beating rain and wintry fray
Did to a lonely cot his steps decoy :
There, up to earn the needments of the day,
He found dame Poverty, nor fair nor coy :
Her he compress'd, and fill'd her with a lusty boy.

VII.

Amid the greenwood shade this boy was bred,
And grew at last a knight of muchel fame,
Of active mind and vigorous lustyhed,

"The Knight of Arts and Industry" by name.
Earth was his bed, the boughs his roof did frame;
He knew no beverage but the flowing stream;
His tasteful well-earn'd food the sylvan game,

Or the brown fruit with which the woodlands teem: The same to him glad Summer, or the Winter breme.

VIII.

So pass'd his youthful morning, void of care,
Wild as the colts that through the commons run:
For him no tender parents troubled were;

He of the forest seem'd to be the son;
And certes had been utterly undone,

But that Minerva pity of him took,

With all the gods that love the rural wonne,
That teach to tame the soil and rule the crook ;

Ne did the sacred Nine disdain a gentle look.

IX.

Of fertile genius, him they nurtured well
In every science and in every art

By which mankind the thoughtless brutes excel,
That can or use, or joy, or grace impart,
Disclosing all the powers of head and heart:

Ne were the goodly exercises spared

That brace the nerves, or make the limbs alert,
And mix elastic force with firmness hard:

Was never knight on ground mote be with him compared.

X.

Sometimes, with early morn, he mounted gay
The hunter-steed, exulting o'er the dale,
And drew the roseate breath of orient day:
Sometimes, retiring to the secret vale,

Yclad in steel, and bright with burnish'd mail,
He strain'd the bow, or toss'd the sounding spear,
Or, darting on the goal, outstripp'd the gale,

Or wheel'd the chariot in its mid career,

Or strenuous wrestled hard with many a tough compeer.

XI.

At other times he pry'd through Nature's store,
Whate'er she in th' ethereal round contains,
Whate'er she hides beneath her verdant floor,

The vegetable and the mineral reigns;

Or else he scann'd the globe,-those small domains, Where restless mortals such a turmoil keep,Its seas, its floods, its mountains, and its plains: But more he search'd the mind, and roused from sleep Those moral seeds whence we heroic actions reap.

XII.

Nor would he scorn to stoop from high pursuits Of heavenly Truth, and practise what she taught. Vain is the tree of knowledge without fruits! Sometimes in hand the spade or plough he caught, Forth-calling all with which boon earth is fraught; Sometimes he plied the strong mechanic tool, Or rear'd the fabric from the finest draught; And oft he put himself to Neptune's school, Fighting with winds and waves on the vex'd ocean-pool.

XIII.

To solace then these rougher toils, he tried To touch the kindling canvas into life; With Nature his creating pencil vied, With Nature joyous at the mimic strife: Or to such shapes as graced Pygmalion's wife He hew'd the marble: or, with varied fire, He roused the trumpet and the martial fife, Or bade the lute sweet tenderness inspire, Or verses framed that well might wake Apollo's lyre.

XIV.

Accomplish'd thus, he from the woods issued,
Full of great aims, and bent on bold emprize:
The work, which long he in his breast had brew'd,
Now to perform he ardent did devise ;

To wit, a barbarous world to civilize.

Earth was till then a boundless forest wild;
Nought to be seen but savage wood, and skies:
No cities nourish'd arts, no culture smiled,

No government, no laws, no gentle manners mild.