Depainted have, its horrors deep display'd, And gave unnumber'd wretches to the day, Who tossing there in squalid misery lay. Soon as of sacred light th' unwonted smile Pour'd on these living catacombs its ray, Through the drear caverns stretching many a mile, The sick up-rais'd their heads, and dropp'd their woes awhile.

"O Heaven!" (they cry'd)" and do we once

more see

Yon blessed sun, and this green carth so fair? Are we from noisome damps of pest-house free? And drink our souls the sweet ethereal air? O, thou! or knight or god! who holdest there That fiend, oh, keep him in eternal chains! But what for us, the children of despair, Brought to the brink of Hell, what hope remains? Repentance does itself but aggravate our pains."

The gentle knight, who saw their rueful case, Let fall adown his silver beard some 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 cheers; She quell the brand by which the rocks are riven; She more than merely softens, she rejoices Heaven.

"Then patient bear the sufferings you have earn'd,
And by these sufferings purify the mind;
Let wisdom be by past 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 will soothe your pangs, and wing you to the skies."

They silent heard, and pour'd their thanks in tears.
"For you (resum'd the knight, with sterner tone)
Whose hard dry hearts th' obdurate demon sears,
That villain's gifts will cost you many a groan;
In dolorous mansion long you must bemoan
His fatal charms, and weep your stains away:
Till soft and pure as infant goodness grown,
You feel a perfect change: then, who can say
What grace may yet shine forth in Heaven's eternal
day ?"

This said, his powerful wand he wav'd anew:
Instant, a glorious angel train descends,
The Charities, to wit, of rosy hue;
Sweet love their looks a gentle radiance lends,
And with seraphic flame compassion blends.
At once, delighted, to their charge they fly:
When, lo! a goodly hospital ascends;

In which they bade each lenient aid be nigh,
That could the sick-bed smooth of that sad company.

It was a worthy, edifying sight,

And gives to human-kind peculiar grace,
To see kind hands attending day and night;
With tender ministry, from place to place,

Some prop the head; some from the pallid face Wipe off the faint cold dews weak nature sheds ; Some reach the healing draught: the whilst, to chase The fear supreme, around their soften'd beds, Some holy man by prayer all-opening Heaven dispreds.

Attended by a glad acclaiming train,

Of those he rescued had from gaping Hell, Then turn'd the knight; and, to his hall again, Soft-pacing, sought of peace the mossy cell: Yet down his cheeks the gems of pity fell, To see the helpless wretches that remain'd, There left through delves and deserts dire to yell; Amaz'd, their looks with pale dismay were stain'd, And spreading wide their hands, they meek repentance feign'd.

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 sands abrupt on sands lay loosely piled, Through which they floundering toil'd with painful care, [less air. Whilst Phoebus smote them sore, and fir'd the cloud

Then, varying to a joyless land of bogs,
The sadden'd country a gray waste appear'd;
Where nought but putrid streams 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
steer'd,

By cruel fiends still hurry'd to and fro, [moe. Gaunt beggary, and scorn, with many hell-hounds

The first was with base dunghill rags yclad, Tainting the gale, in which they flutter'd light; Of morbid hue his features, sunk, and sad; His hollow eyne shook forth a sickly light; And o'er his lank jaw-bone, in piteous plight, His black rough beard was matted rank and vile; Direful to see! an heart-appalling sight! Meantime foul scurf and blotches him defile; And dogs, where'er he went, still barked all the while.

The other was a fell despightful fiend: Hell holds none worse in baleful bower below: By pride, and wit, and rage, and rancour, keen'd; Of man, alike or good or bad, the foe: With nose up-turn'd, he always made a show As if he smelt some nauseous scent; his eye Was cold, and keen, like blast from Boreal snow; And taunts he casten forth most bitterly. Such were the twain that off drove this ungodly fry.

Ev'n so through Brentford town, a town of mud,
An herd of bristly swine is prick'd along;
The filthy beasts, that never chew the cud, [song,
Still grunt and squeak, and sing their troublous
And oft they plunge themselves the mire among:
But aye the ruthless driver goads them on,

And aye of barking dogs the bitter throng Makes them renew their unmelodious moan; Ne ever find they rest from their unresting fone.

SONG,

WRITTEN IN HIS EARLY YEARS, AND AFTERWARDS SHAPED FOR HIS AMANDA.

FOR ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
An unrelenting foe to love;
And when we meet a mutual heart,
Come in between and bid us part;
Bid us sigh on from day to day,
And wish and wish the soul away;
Till youth and genial years are flown,
And all the life of life is gone!
But busy busy still art thou,
To bind the loveless joyless vow,
The heart from pleasure to delude,
And join the gentle to the rude;

For pomp, and noise, and senseless show,
To make us Nature's joys forego,
Beneath a gay dominion groan,

And put the golden fetter on!

TO THE REVEREND MR. MURDOCH, RECTOR OF STRADDISHALL, IN SUFFOLK, 1738 THUS safely low, my friend, thou canst not fall: Here reigns a deep tranquillity o'er all; No noise, no care, no vanity, no strife; Men, woods, and fields, all breathe untroubled life. Then keep each passion down, however dear; Trust me the tender are the most severe. Guard, while 'tis thine, thy philosophic ease, And ask no joy but that of virtuous peace; That bids defiance to the storms of fate; High bliss is only for a higher state.

ODE.

O NIGHTINGALE, best poet of the grove,
That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to thee,
Blest in the full possession of thy love:

O lend that strain, sweet nightingale, to me!

'Tis mine, alas! to mourn my wretched fate: I love a maid who all my bosom charms, Yet lose my days without this lovely mate;

Inhuman Fortune keeps her from my arms.

You, happy birds! by nature's simple laws
Lead your soft lives, sustain'd by nature's fare;
You dwell wherever roving fancy draws,

And love and song is all your pleasing care:

But we, vain slaves of interest and of pride,
Dare not be blest lest envious tongues should blame:
And hence, in vain I languish for my bride;
O mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless flame.

ODE ON EOLUS'S HARP.

ETHEREAL race, inhabitants of air,

Who hymn your God amid the secret grove; Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair,

And raise majestic strains, or melt in love.

Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid, With what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart! Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid,

Who dy'd of love, these sweet complainings part.

But, hark! that strain was of a graver tone,

On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws; Or he, the sacred bard, who sat alone,

In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes.

Such was the song which Zion's children sung,
When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint;
And to such sadly-solemn notes are strung
Angelic harps, to soothe a dying saint.

Methinks I hear the full celestial choir [raise;
Through heaven's high dome their awful anthem
Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire
To swell the lofty hymn from praise to praise.

Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind,

Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string, Smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd, For, till you cease, my Muse forgets to sing.

HYMN ON SOLITUDE.

HAIL, mildly pleasing solitude, Companion of the wise and good, But, from whose holy, piercing eye, The herd of fools and villains fly.

Oh! how I love with thee to walk, And listen to thy whisper'd talk,

Which innocence and truth imparts,
And melts the most obdurate hearts.
A thousand shapes you wear with ease,
And still in every shape you please.
Now wrapt in some mysterious dream,
A lone philosopher you seem;
Now quick from hill to vale you fly,
And now you sweep the vaulted sky.
A shepherd next, you haunt the plain,
And warble forth your oaten strain.
A lover now, with all the grace
Of that sweet passion in your face:
Then, calm'd to friendship, you assume
The gentle-looking Hartford's bloom,
As, with her Musidora, she
(Her Musidora fond of thee)
Amid the long-withdrawing vale,
Awakes the rival'd nightingale.

Thine is the balmy breath of morn,
Just as the dew-bent rose is born;
And while meridian fervours beat,
Thine is the woodland dumb retreat;
But chief, when evening scenes decay,
And the faint landscape swims away,
Thine is the doubtful soft decline,
And that best hour of musing thine.

Descending angels bless thy train, The virtues of the sage, and swain; Plain innocence, in white array'd, Before thee lifts her fearless head; Religion's beams around thee shine, And cheer thy glooms with light divine: About thee sports sweet liberty; And wrapt Urania sings to thee.

Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell,
And in thy deep recesses dwell!
Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill,
When meditation has her fill,

I just may cast my careless eyes,
Where London's spiry turrets rise;
Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain,
Then shield me in my woods again.

Nor trow I when this bitter blast will end,
Or if yon stars will e'er my vows befriend.
Sleep, sleep, my flock; for happy ye may take
Sweet nightly rest, though still your master wake."
Now to the waning moon the nightingale,
In slender warblings, tun'd her piteous tale.
The love-sick shepherd, listening, felt relief,
Pleas'd with so sweet a partner in his grief,
Till, by degrees, her notes and silent night
To slumbers soft his heavy heart invite.

THE SECOND PASTORAL.

THENOT, COLINET.

Thenot.

Is it not Colinet I lonesome see,
Leaning with folded arms against the tree?
Or is it age of late bedims my sight?
'Tis Colinet, indeed, in woeful plight.
Thy cloudy look why melting into tears,
Unseemly, now the sky so bright appears?
Why in this mournful manner art thou found,
Unthankful lad, when all things smile around?
Or hear'st not lark and linnet jointly sing,
Their notes blithe-warbling to salute the spring?
Colinet.

Though blithe their notes, not so my wayward fate;
Nor lark would sing, nor linnet, in my state.
Each creature, Thenot, to his task is born;
As they to mirth and music, I to mourn.
Waking, at midnight, I my woes renew,
My tears oft mingling with the falling dew.
Thenot.

Small cause, I ween, has lusty youth to plain :
Or who may, then, the weight of eld sustain,
When every slackening nerve begins to fail,
And the load presseth as our days prevail?
Yet, though with years my body downward tend,
As trees beneath their fruit, in autumn, bend;
Spite of my snowy head and icy veins,
My mind a cheerful temper still retains :

And why should man, mishap what will, repine,
Sour every sweet, and mix with tears his wine?
But tell me, then: it may relieve thy woe,
To let a friend thine inward ailment know.
Colinet.

Idly 'twill waste thee, Thenot, the whole day,
Should'st thou give ear to all my grief can say.
Thine ewes will wander; and the heedless lambs,
In loud complaints, require their absent dams.
Thenot.

See Lightfoot, he shall tend them close: and I,
"Tween whiles, across the plain will glance mine eye.
Colinet.

Where to begin I know not, where to end.
Doth there one smiling hour my youth attend?
Though few my days, as well my follies show,
Yet are those days all clouded o'er with woe:
No happy gleam of sunshine doth appear,
My lowering sky, and wintry months, to cheer.
My piteous plight in yonder naked tree,
Which bears the thunder-scar, too plain I see :
Quite destitute it stands of shelter kind,
The mark of storms, and sport of every wind:
The riven trunk feels not th' approach of spring;
Nor birds among the leafless branches sing:

With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleasing song.
Ill-fated tree! and more ill-fated I!
From thee, from me, alike the shepherds fly.
Thenot.

Sure thou in hapless hour of time wast born,
When blighting mildew spoils the rising corn,
Or blasting winds o'er blossom'd hedge-rows pass,
To kill the promis'd fruits, and scorch the grass;
Or when the moon, by wizard charm'd, foreshows,
Blood-stain'd in foul eclipse, impending woes.
Untimely born, ill-luck betides thee still.

Colinet.

And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill?
Thenot.

Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our sheep,
From this good shepherd's flock his care may keep :
Against ill-luck, alas! all forecast fails;
Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, avails.
Colinet.

Ah me, the while! ah me, the luckless day!
Ah, luckless lad! befits me more to say.
Unhappy hour! when, fresh in youthful bud,
I left, Sabrina fair, thy silvery flood.
Ah, silly I! more silly than my sheep,
Which on thy flowery banks I wont to keep.
Sweet are thy banks! Oh, when shall I, once more,
With ravish'd eyes review thine amell'd shore?
When, in the crystal of thy water, scan
Each feature faded, and my colour wan?
When shall I see my hut, the sinall abode
Myself did raise, and cover o'er with sod?
Small though it be, a mean and humble cell,
Yet is there room for peace and me to dwell.
Thenot.

And what enticement charm'd thee far away
From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart astray?
Colinet.

A lewd desire, strange lads and swains to know:
Ah, God! that ever I should covet woe!
With wandering feet unblest, and fond of fame,
I sought I know not what besides a name.

Thenot.

Or, sooth to say, didst thou not hither roam
In search of gains more plenty than at home?
A rolling stone is ever bare of moss;
And, to their cost, green years old proverbs cross.
Colinet.

Small need there was, in random search of gain,
To drive my pining flock athwart the plain,
To distant Cam. Fine gain at length, I trow,
To hoard up to myself such deal of woe!
My sheep quite spent, through travel and ill-fare,
And, like their keeper, ragged grown and bare;
The damp, cold greensward, for my nightly bed,
And some slant willow's trunk, to rest my head.
Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain;
And hard is want to the unpractis'd swain:
But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard,
To blasting storms of calumny compar'd:
Unkind as hail it falls; the pelting shower
Destroys the tender herb and budding flower.
Thenot.

Slander, we shepherds count the vilest wrong:
And what wounds sorer than an evil tongue?
Colinet.