IX. Of fertile genius him they nurtur'd well, By which mankind the thoughtless brutes excel, Ne were the goodly exercises spar'd, That brace the nerves, or make the limbs alert, Was never knight on ground mote be with him compar❜d. Sometimes, with early morn, he mounted gay Yclad in fteel, and bright with burnish'd mail, Or wheel'd the chariot in its mid-career, Or frenuous wrestled hard with many a tough compeer. At other times he pry'd through Nature's store, Or else he fcann'd the globe, those small domains, XII. Nor XII. Nor would he fcorn 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 ply'd the ftrong 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 vext ocean pool. XIII. To folace then these rougher toils, he try'd Accomplish'd thus he from the woods issued, No To wit, a barbarous world to civilize. Earth was till then a boundless forest wild; government, no laws, no gentle manners mild. XV. A XV. A ragged wight, the worft of brutes, was man; And guile and ruffian force were all their trade. Life was a fcene of rapine, want, and woe; Which this brave knight, in noble anger, made To fwear, he would the rafcal rout o'erthrow, For, by the powers divine, it should no more be fo! XVI. It would exceed the purport of my song, They lie, to flavish floth and tyranny a prey. XVII. To crown his toils, Sir Industry then spread In the brown fhades and green-wood forest loft, XVIII. He lik'd the foil, he lik'd the clement skies, He lik'd the verdant hills and flowery plains. Be this my great, my chofen ifle (he cries) This, whilft my labours Liberty sustains, This queen of ocean all affault difdains. Nor lik'd he lefs the genius of the land, To freedom apt and perfevering pains, Mild to obey, and generous to command, Temper'd by forming Heaven with kindeft firmest hand. XIX. Here, by degrees, his mafter-work arose, Fair queen of arts! from heaven itself who came, The towns he quicken'd by mechanic arts, While o'er th' encircling deep Britannia's thunder roars. XXI. The drooping Muses then he westward call'd, What time the Turk th' enfeebled Grecian thrall'd; Where Ifis many a famous nourfling breeds; Or where old Cam foft-paces o'er the lea In penfive mood, and tunes his Doric reeds, The whilst his flocks at large the lonely fhepherd feeds, XXII. Yet the fine arts were what he finish'd leaft. For why? They are the quinteffence of all, That mighty patrons the coy fisters call [thrall, Where no rude care the mounting thought may And where they nothing have to do but please: Ah! gracious God! thou know'ft they ask no other fees. XXIII. But now, alas! we live too late in time: Our patrons now ev'n grudge that little claim, Except to fuch as fleek the foothing rhyme; And yet, forfooth, they wear Mæcenas' name, Poor fons of puft-up vanity, not fame. Unbroken fpirits, chear! ftill, ftill remains Th' Eternal Patron, Liberty; whose flame, While the protects, infpires the nobleft strains. The beft, and sweetest far, are toil-created gains. XXIV. When |