Of summer-moons, the distant woods among, Or by some flood all silver'd with the gleam, The soft-embodied fays1 through airy portal stream.


The doors that knew no shrill alarming bell, Ne cursed knocker plied by villain's hand, Self-open'd into halls, where, who can tell What elegance and grandeur wide expand; The pride of Turkey and of Persia land? Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread, And couches stretch'd around in seemly band; And endless pillows rise to prop the head; So that each spacious room was one full-swelling bed.

And everywhere huge cover'd tables stood,

With wines high-flavored and rich viands crown'd; Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food On the green bosom of this earth are found, And all old ocean 'genders in his round, Some hand unseen these silently display'd, Even undemanded by a sign or sound; You need but wish, and, instantly obey'd, Fair ranged the dishes rose, and thick the glasses play'd.

Here freedom reign'd, without the least alloy;
Nor gossip's tale, nor ancient maiden's gall,
Nor saintly spleen, durst murmur at our joy,
And with envenom'd tongue our pleasures pall.
For why? there was but one great rule for all;

1 fairies.

To wit, that each should work his own desire,
And eat, drink, study, sleep, as it may fall,
Or melt the time in love, or wake the lyre,
And carol what, unbid, the muses might inspire.

The rooms with costly tapestry were hung
Where was inwoven many a gentle tale,
Such as of old the rural poets sung,
Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale;

Reclining lovers in the lonely dale,
Pour'd forth at large the sweetly tortured heart;
Or, sighing tender passion, swell'd the gale,

And taught charm'd echo to resound their smart ; While flocks, woods, streams around, repose and peace


Those pleased the most, where, by a cunning hand,
Depainted was the patriarchal age;

What time Dan1 Abraham left the Chaldee land,
And pastured on from verdant stage to stage,
Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage.
Toil was not then; of nothing took they heed,
But with wild beasts the sylvan war to wage,

And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed: Bless'd sons of nature they! true golden age indeed!

Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls,

Bade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes rise,
Or Autumn's varied shades imbrown the walls;
Now the black tempest strikes the astonished eyes;
Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies;
The trembling sun now plays o'er ocean blue,

1 Dan. A title of honor, often used by the old poets, as Dan Cupid, Dan Chaucer, etc. From Spanish don.


And now rude mountains frown amid the skies; Whate'er Lorraine 1 light-touch'd with softening hue, Or savage Rosa 2 dash'd, or learned Poussin 3 drew.

Each sound too here to languishment inclined
Lull'd the weak bosom, and induced ease;
Aërial music in the warbling wind,
At distance rising oft, by small degrees,
Nearer and nearer came, till o'er the trees
It hung, and breath'd such soul-dissolving airs,
As did, alas! with soft perdition please :
Entangled deep in its enchanting snares,
The listening heart forgot all duties and all cares.

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A certain music, never known before, Here lull'd the pensive, melancholy mind; Full easily obtained. Behooves no more, But sidelong, to the gently waving wind, To lay the well-tuned instrument reclined; From which, with airy flying fingers light, Beyond each mortal touch the most refined, The god of winds drew sound of deep delight: Whence, with just cause, the harp of Æolus it hight.

Ah me! what hand can touch the string so fine
Who up the lofty diapason5 roll

1 Claude Lorraine, landscape painter, 1600-1682.

2 Salvator Rosa, painter, poet, musician, 1615-1673.

3 Nicolas Poussin, one of the most remarkable artists of his age, 1593– 1665.

The Æolian harp. So called from Æolus, the god of the winds. Being placed where a current of air strikes the strings, it produces irregular musical sounds.

From Greek dia, through, and

5 A chord which includes all tones. pas, all.

Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine, Then let them down again into the soul! Now rising love they fann'd; now pleasing dole 1 They breathed, in tender musings through the heart; And now a graver sacred strain they stole, As when seraphic hands a hymn impart : Wild warbling nature all, above the reach of art.


Amid the greenwood shade this boy was bred,
And grew at last a knight of muchel 2 fame,
Of active mind and vigorous lustyhed,3
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.1

So pass'd his youthly 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,5
That teach to tame the soil and rule the crook;
Ne did the sacred Nine disdain a gentle look.

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

By which mankind the thoughtless brutes excel,
That can or1 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 makes the limbs alert,
And mix elastic force with firmness hard:

Was never knight on ground mote be with him com


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.

At other times he pried through nature's store,
Whate'er she in the ethereal round contains,
Whate'er she hides beneath the verdant floor,
The vegetable and the mineral reigns;2
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.

Nor would he scorn to stoop from high pursuits Of heavenly truth, and practice what she taught: 2 kingdoms.

1 either.

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