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Fired that the house rejects him, 'Sdeath, I'll print it,
Why did I write What sin to me unknown Dipped me in ink, my parents', or my own f As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came : I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobeyed: The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wits To help me through this long disease, my life, To second, Arbuthnot thy ar, and care, And teach the being you prese, red to bear.
In lonely 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 no where found. It was, H ween, a lovely spot of ground, And there a season atween June and May, Half prankt with spring, with summer halfimbrowned 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 cast, From poppies breathed, and beds of pleasant green, Where never yet was creeping creature seen. Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets played, And hurled every where their waters sheen; That as they bickered through the sunny glade, Tho' restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
Joined to the prattle of the purling rills,
Full in the passage of the vale above, A sable, silent, solemn forest stood ; Where nought but shadowy forms were seen to move, As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood : And up the hills, on either side, a wood Of blackening pines, ay waving to and fro, Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; And where this valley winded out below, The murm'ring main was heard,and scarcely heard to flow
A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was,
The landscape 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 chequered 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.
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The doors, that knew no shrill alarming bell, Ne cursed knocker, plied by villain's band, Self-opened into halls, where, who can tell What elegance and grandeur wide expand; The pride of Turkey and of Persia land? Soft quilts on quilts, carpets on carpets spread, And couches stretched around in seemly band And endless pillows rise to prop the head; So that each spacious room was one full swelling bed.
Each sound too here to languishment inclined,
A certain music, never known before, -
Near the pavilions where we slept, still ran
And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams,