To Mr.

THOMSON,

On his unfinished Plan of a Poem, called the CASTLE of Indolence, in Spenfer's Style.

By Dr. M ORE L L..

I.

S when the filk-worm, erft the tender care

A$

Of Syrian maidens, 'gins for to unfold
From his fleek fides, that now much fleeker are
The gloffy treafure, and soft threads of gold;
In various turns, and many a winding fold,
He spins his web, and as he spins decays;
Till, within circles infinite enroll'd,

He refts fupine, imprison'd in the maze,

The which himself did make, the gathering of his days."
II.

So thou, they fay, from thy prolific brain,
A castle, hight of indolence, didst raise;
Where liftlefs fprites, withouten care or pain,
In idle pleafaunce spend their jocund days,
Nor heed rewardful toil, nor feeken praise.
Thither thou didst repair in luckless hour;
And lulled with thine own enchanting lays,
Didft lie adown, entranced in the bower,

The which thyself didst make, the gathering of thy power.
III. But

III.

But Venus, fuffering not her favourite worm
For aye to fleepen in his filky tomb,
Inftructs him to throw off his pristine form,
And the gay features of a fly affume;

When, lo! eftfoons from the furrounding gloom,
He vigorous breaks, forth iffuing from the wound
His horny beak had made, and finding room,
On new-plum'd pinions flutters all around,
And buzzing speaks his joy in moft expreffive found.
IV.

So may the God of Science and of Wit,
With pitying eye ken thee his darling fon;
Shake from thy fatty fides the flumberous fit,
In which, alas! thou art fo woe begon!
Or with his pointed arrows goad thee on ;
Till thou refeeleft life in all thy veins ;
And, on the wings of Refolution,

Like thine own hero dight, fliest o'er the plains, Chaunting his peerless praise in never-dying strains.

CON