And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, Come then, expressive silence, muse his praise. THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.1 O mortal man, who livest here by toil, Do not complain of this thy hard estate; That like an emmet thou must ever moil, Is a sad sentence of an ancient date; And, certes, there is for it reason great; For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, And curse thy star, and early drudge and late, Withouten that would come a heavier bale, Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, A most enchanting wizard did abide, Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground: And there a season atween June and May, Half pranked with spring, with summer half imbrowned, A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, No living wight could work, ne cared even for play: Was nought around but images of rest: Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between; And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest, case. From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green, 1 Lord Byron said, "The 'Seasons' of Thomson would have been better in rhyme, although still inferior to his 'Castle of Indolence;"" and William Hazlitt remarked, "It has been supposed by some that the 'Castle of Indolence' is Thomson's best poem: but that is not the He has in it, indeed, poured out the whole soul of indolence, diffuse, relaxed, supine, dissolved into a voluptuous dream; and surrounded himself with a set of objects and companions in entire unison with the listlessness of his own temper. But still there are no passages in this exquisite little production of sportive ease and fancy equal to the best of those of the 'Seasons."-ED. Where never yet was creeping creature seen. Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets played, And hurled everywhere their waters sheen, That, as they bickered through the sunny glade, Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. Joined to the prattle of the purling rills Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills, And vacant shepherds piping in the dale: And now and then sweet Philomel would wail, Or stock-doves 'plain amid the forest deep, That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; And still a coil the grasshopper did keep; Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. Full in the passage of the vale above, A sable, silent, solemn forest stood, Where nought but shadowy forms were seen tɔ move, As Idlesse fancied in her dreaming mood: And up the hills, on either side, a wood Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro, Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; And where this valley winded out below The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye: And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, For ever flushing round a summer sky: There eke the soft delights that witchingly Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh; But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest. The landskip such, inspiring perfect ease, Where Indolence-for so the wizard hight Close hid his castle mid embowering trees, That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright, And made a kind of checkered day and night. Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate, Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight Was placed; and to his lute, of cruel fate And labour harsh complained, lamenting man's estate. Thither continual pilgrims crowded still, From all the roads of earth that pass there by; For, as they chanced to breathe on neighbouring hill, The freshness of this valley smote their eye, And drew them ever and anon more nigh; Till clustering round the enchanter false they hung, "Behold! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold! See all but man with unearned pleasure gay: See her bright robes the butterfly unfold, Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May! What youthful bride can equal her array! Who can with her for easy pleasure vie! From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray, From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly, Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. "Behold the merry minstrels of the morn, The swarming songsters of the careless grove, Ten thousand throats! that from the flowering thorn Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love, Such grateful kindly raptures them emove: They neither plough nor sow; ne, fit for flail, E'er to the barn the nodding sheaves they drove; Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the vale. And hurls your labours to the valley deep, For ever vain; come, and, withouten fee, I in oblivion will your sorrows steep, Your cares, your toils, will steep you in a sea Of full delight: O come, ye weary wights, to me! "With me you need not rise at early dawn, To pass the joyless day in various stounds; Or, louting low, on upstart fortune fawn, And sell fair honour for some paltry pounds; Or through the city take your dirty rounds, To cheat, and dun, and lie, and visit pay, Now flattering base, now giving secret wounds; Or prowl in courts of law for human prey, In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad highway. "No cocks, with me, to rustic labour call, From village on to village sounding clear: They who are pleased themselves must always please; On others' ways they never squint a frown, Nor heed what haps in hamlet or in town; Thus, from the source of tender indolence, With milky blood the heart is overflown, Is soothed and sweetened by the social sense; For interest, envy, pride, and strife are banished hence. "What, what is virtue but repose of mind, A pure ethereal calm, that knows no storm; Above the reach of wild ambition's wind, Above the passions that this world deform, And torture man, a proud malignant worm? But here, instead, soft gales of passion play, And gently stir the heart, thereby to form A quicker sense of joy-as breezes stray Across the enlivened skies, and make them still more gay. "The best of men have ever loved repose: They hate to mingle in the filthy fray; Where the soul sours, and gradual rancour grows, Imbittered more from peevish day to day. Even those whom Fame has lent her fairest ray, The most renowned of worthy wights of yore, From a base world at last have stolen away: So Scipio, to the soft Cumaan shore Retiring, tasted joy he never knew before. "But if a little exercise you choose, Some zest for ease, 'tis not forbidden here. Amid the groves you may indulge the muse, Or tend the blooms, and deck the vernal year; Or softly stealing, with your watery gear, Along the brook, the crimson-spotted fry You may delude; the whilst, amused, you hear Now the hoarse stream, and now the zephyr's sigh, Attuned to the birds, and woodland melody. "Oh, grievous folly! to heap up estate, Losing the days you see beneath the sun; When, sudden, comes blind unrelenting fate, And gives the untasted portion you have won, 160 Now rising love they fanned; now pleasing dole the heart; And now a graver sacred strain they stole, As when seraphic hands a hymn impart: And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams, And shed a roseate smile on nature's face. No, fair illusions! artful phantoms, no! My muse will not attempt your fairy land; With evil good, and strew with pleasure pain. But for those fiends whom blood and broils delight, Who hurl the wretch, as if to hell outright, Down, down black gulfs, where sullen waters sleep; Or hold him clambering all the fearful night On beetling cliffs, or pent in ruins deep; They, till due time should serve, were bid far hence to keep. Ye guardian spirits, to whom man is dear, From these foul demons shield the midnight gloom; Angels of fancy and of love be near, And o'er the blank of sleep diffuse a bloom; And fill with pious awe and joy-mixt woe the TO THE MEMORY OF MR. CONGREVE. What art thou, Death! by mankind poorly feared, mists This various misery, these air-fed dreams These Congreve tastes, safe on the ethereal Joined to the numberless immortal quire Such, high-born Marlbro', be thy sire divine Who thus in dreams voluptuous, soft, and Of blood-stained tyranny, and save a world. bland, Poured all the Arabian heaven upon her With wonder named; fair freedom's champion he, nights, By Heaven approved, a conqueror without guilt; And blest them oft besides with more refined And such on earth his friend, and joined on high delights. They were, By deathless love, Godolphin's patriot worth, First heirs of praise! But I, with weak essay, TELL ME, THOU SOUL. Tell me, thou soul of her I love, Ah! tell me whither art thou fled; To what delightful world above, Appointed for the happy dead? Or dost thou free at random roam, Oh! if thou hover'st round my walk, While under every well-known tree, I to thy fancy'd shadow talk, And every tear is full of thee: Should then the weary eye of grief, In slumber find a short relief, FOR EVER, FORTUNE. For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove But busy, busy still art thou |