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LXIX. The gentle knight, who saw their rueful case, Let fall adown his filver beard fome tears. “ Certes (quoth he) it is not ev'n in grace, “ T' undo the past, and eke your
broken years : ". Nathless, to nobler worlds repentance rears, “ With humble hope, her eye; to her is given “ A power the truly contrite heart that chears;
She quells the brand by which the rocks are riven; " She more than merely softens, lhe rejoices Heaven.
LXX. “ Then patient bear the sufferings you have earn’d, “ And by these sufferings purify the mind; “ Let wisdom be by paft misconduct learn'd: • Or pious die, with penitence resign'd ; " And to a life more happy and refin’d, “ Doubt not, you shall, new creatures, yet arise. “ Till then, you may expect in me to find
“ One who will wipe your sorrow from your eyes, “ One who wil soothe your pangs, and wing you to
[the fkies. They filent hcar'd, and pour'd their thanks in tears. “ For you (resum’d the knight, with fterner tone) “ Whofe hard dry hearts th’ obdurate demon sears, " That villain's gifts will cost you many a groan; “ In dolorous manfion long you must bemoan “ His fatal charms, and weep your
away ; « Till, foft and pure as infant goodness grown,
• You feel a perfect change : then, who can say, ' 6. What grace may yet fhine forth in heaven's eternal
In which they bade each lenient aid be nigh,
The fear supreme, around their soften'd beds,
Amaz’d, their looks with pale dismay were stain's, And spreading wide their hands they meek repentance fcignid.
LXXV. But, ah! their scorned day of grace was past : For (horrible to tell !) a desert wild Before them stretch'd, bare, comfortless, and vast; With gibbets, bones, and carcases defil'd. There nor trim field, nor lively culture smil'd; Nor waving shade was seen, nor fountain fair; But fands abrupt on sands lay loosely pild, [sare,
Through which they floundering toild with painful Whilft Phoebus smote them fore, and fir'd the cloudless LXXVI.
(air. Then, varying to a joyless land of bogs, The sadden'd country a grey waste appear'd ; Where nought but putrid steams and noisome fogs For ever hung on drizzly Auster's beard ; Or else the ground by piercing Caurus sear’d, Was jagg'd with frost, or heap'd with glazed snow: Through these extremes a ceaseless round they steerd,
By cruel fiends still hurry'd to and fro,
Meantime foul scurf and blotches him defile;
And taunts he caften forth most bitterly.
Makes them renew their unmelodious moan;
TH O M S ON,
On his unfinished Plan of a Poem, called the CASTLE
OF INDOLENCE, in Spenser's Style.
Of Syrian maidens, 'gins for to unfold
He rests supine, imprison’d in the maze,
Didst lie adown, entranced in the bower,