From whomsoe'er the villain takes in hand,
Their joints unknit, their sinews melt apace,
As lithe they grow as any willow wand,
And of their varnish'd force remains no trace:
So when a maiden fair, of modest grace,
In all her buxom blooming May of charms,
Is seized in some losel's hot embrace,
She waxeth very weakly as she warms,

Then, sighing, yields her up to love's delicious

harms.

Wak'd by the crowd, slow from his bench arose A comely full-spread porter, swoln with sleep, His calm, broad, thoughtless, aspect breath'd repose, And in sweet torpor he was plunged deep, Ne could himself from ceaseless yawning keep; While o'er his eyes the drowsy liquor ran,

Through which his half-wak'd soul would faintly

peep,

Then taking his black staff he call'd his man, And rous'd himself as much as rouse himself he can.

The lad leap'd lightly at his master's call;
He was, to weet, a little roguish page.

Save sleep and play who minded nought at all,
Like most the untaught striplings of his age.
This boy kept each band to disengage,
Garters and buckles, task for him unfit,

But ill-becoming his grave personage,

And which his portly paunch would not permit, So this same limber page to all performed it.

Mean time the master porter wide display'd Great store of caps, of slippers, and of gowns, Wherewith he those who enter'd in array'd, Loose as the breeze that plays along the downs, And waves the summer woods when evening frowns. O fair undress! best dress! it checks no vein, But every flowing limb in pleasure drowns, And heightens ease with grace. This done, right fain, Sir Porter sat him down, and turn'd to sleep again.

Thus easy rob'd, they to the fountain sped,
That in the middle of the court up threw
A stream, high spouting from its liquid bed,
And falling back again in drizzly dew;

There each deep draughts, as deep he thirsted, drew.
It was a fountain of Nepenthe rare,

Whence, as Dan Homer sings, huge pleasaunce grew, And sweet oblivion of vile earthly care;

Fair gladsome waking thoughts, and joyous dreams more fair.

This rite perform'd, all inly pleas'd and still,
Withouten tromp, was proclamation made:
"Ye sons of Indolence! do what you will,
And wander where you list, through hall or glade
Be no man's pleasure for another staid!

Let each as likes him best his hours employ,
And curs'd be he who minds his neighbour's trade!
Here dwells kind Ease and unreproving Joy :
He little merits bliss who others can annoy.”

Straight of these endless numbers, swarming

round,

As thick as idle motes in sunny ray,

Not one eftsoons in view was to be found,
But every man stroll'd off his own glad way;
Wide o'er this ample court's blank area,
With all the lodges that thereto pertain❜d
No living creature could be seen to stray,
While solitude and perfect silence reign'd,
So that to think you dreamt you almost was con-
strain'd.

As when a shepherd of the Hebride isles
Plac'd far amid the melancholy main,
(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,
Or that aerial beings sometimes deign
To stand embodied to our senses plain)
Sees on the naked hill or valley low,
The whilst in ocean Phœbus dips his wain,
A vast assembly moving to and fro,

Then all at once in air dissolves the wond'rous show.

Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound! Whose soft dominion o'er this Castle sways, And all the widely-silent places round, Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays What never yet was sung in mortal lays. But how shall I attempt such arduous string, I who have spent my nights and nightly days In this soul-deadening place, loose loitering? Ah! how shall I for this uprear my moulted wing?

Come on, my Muse! nor stoop to low despair, Thou imp of Jove! touch'd by celestial fire, Thou yet shalt sing of war and actions fair, Which the bold sons of Britain will inspire; Of ancient bards thou yet shalt sweep the lyre; Thou yet shalt read in tragic pall the stage, Paint love's enchanting woes, the hero's ire, The sage's calm, the patriot's noble rage, Dashing corruption down through every worthless age.

The doors, that knew no shrill alarming bell, Ne cursed knocker ply'd 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 every where huge cover'd tables stood, With wines high-flavour'd, 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, E'en undemanded, by a sigh or sound; You need but wish, and, instantly obey'd,

Fair rang'd 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; 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-tortur'd 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 impart.

Those pleas'd the most where, by a cunning hand,

Depainted was the patriarchal age,

What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land, And pastur'd on from verdant stage to stage, Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage, Toil was not then. Of nothing they took heed, But with wild beasts the sylvan war to wage, And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed: Blest sons of Nature they! true Golden Age indeed!