To stand imbodied to our senses plain),
Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,

The while in ocean Phœbus dips his wain,
A vast assembly moving to and fro,

Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.

Ye gods of quiet and of sleep profound! Whose soft dominion o'er the 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 molted 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 action fair, Which the bold sons of Britain will inspire; Of ancient bards thou yet shalt sweep the lyre; Thou yet shalt tread in tragic pall the stage, Paint love's enchanting woes, the hero's ire, The sage's calm, the patriot's noble rage, [age. Dashing corruption down through every worthless

The doors, that knew no shrill, alarming bell, No cursed knocker plied 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; [bed. So that each spacious room was one full-swelling And everywhere 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,
VOL. I.-B B

And all old Ocean genders in his round:
Some hand unseen these silently display'd,
Ev'n undemanded by a sign or sound;

You need but wish, and, instantly obey'd, [play'd.
Fair ranged the dishes rose, and thick the glasses
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 pleasure pall.
For why there was but one great rule for all;
To wit, that each should work his own desire,
And eat, drink, study, 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-tortured 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 pleased the most, where, by a cunning hand, Depainted was the patriarchal age;

What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land, And pastured on from verdant stage to stage, Where fields and fountains fresh could best en

gage.

Toil was not then. Of nothing took they heed, But with wild beasts the sylvan war to wage, And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed: Bless'd sons of nature they! true golden age indeed!

Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls,

Bade the gay bloom of vernal landskips rise,
Or autumn's varied shades imbrown the walls:
Now the black tempest strikes th' astonish'd eyes,

Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies;
The trembling sun now plays o'er ocean blue,
And now rude mountains frown amid the skies;
Whate'er Lorraine light-touched with softening
hue,

Or savage Rosa dash'd, or learned Poussin drew.
Each sound, too, here, to languishment inclined,
Lull'd the weak bosom, and induced ease.
Aërial music in the warbling wind,

At distance rising oft by small degrees,
Nearer and nearer came, till o'er the trees
It hung, and breathed such soul-dissolving airs,
As did, alas! with soft perdition please :
Entangled deep in its enchanting snares,
The listening heart forgets all duties and all cares.
A certain music, never known before,
Here lull'd the pensive, melancholy mind;
Full easily obtain'd: behooves no more,
But sidelong to the gently-waving wind,
To lay the well-tuned instrument reclined;
From which, with airy-flying fingers light,
Beyond each mortal touch the most refined,
The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight:
Whence, with just cause, the harp of Æolus it hight.

Ah me! what hand can touch the string so fine? Who up the lofty diapason roll

Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine, Then let them down again into the soul?

Now rising love they fann'd; now pleasing dole They breathed, in tender musings, through the heart;

And now a graver, sacred strain they stole,
As when seraphic hands an hymn impart :
Wild-warbling nature all, above the reach of art!

Such the gay splendour, the luxurious state,
Of caliphs old, who on the Tigris' shore,
In mighty Bagdat, populous and great,

Held their bright court, where was of ladies store,

And verse, love, music, still the garland wore: When sleep was coy, the bard in waiting there Cheer'd the lone midnight with the Muse's lore: Composing music bade his dreams be fair,

And music lent new gladness to the morning air.

Near the pavilions where we slept still ran
Soft-tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell,
And sobbing breezes sigh'd, and oft began
(So work'd the wizard) wintry storms to swell,
As heaven and earth they would together mell:
At doors and windows, threatening seem'd to call
The demons of the tempest, growling fell,

Yet the least entrance found they none at all; Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure in massy hall.

And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams,
Raising a world of gayer tinct and grace,

O'er which were shadowy cast Elysian gleams,
That play'd, in waving lights, from place to place,
And shed a roseate smile on nature's face.

Not Titan's pencil e'er could so array,

So fleece with clouds the pure ethereal space;
Ne could it e'er such melting forms display,
As loose on flowery beds all languishingly lay.

No, fair illusions! artful phantoms, no!
My Muse will not attempt your fairy-land:
She has no colours that like you can glow:
To catch your vivid scenes too gross her hand.
But sure it is, was ne'er a subtler band

Than these same guileful angel-seeming sprights, Who thus in dreams voluptuous, soft, and bland, Pour'd all th' Arabian heaven upon her nights, And bless'd them oft besides with more refined delights.

Of all the gentle tenants of the place,

There was a man of special grave remark:
A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face,
Pensive, not sad, in thought involved, not dark.

As sooth this man could sing as morning-lark, And teach the noblest morals of the heart: But these his talents were yburied stark; Of the fine stores he nothing would impart, Which or boon Nature gave, or nature-painting Art.

To noontide shades incontinent he ran,
Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound
Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began,
Amid the broom he bask'd him on the ground,
Where the wild thyme and chamomile are found:
There would he linger, till the latest ray

Of light sat trembling on the welkin's bound; Then homeward through the twilight shadows stray,

Sauntering and slow. So had he passed many a day.

Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they passed;
For oft the heavenly fire, that lay conceal'd
Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast,
And all its native light anew reveal'd:

Oft as he traversed the cerulean field,

And mark'd the clouds that drove before the wind, Ten thousand glorious systems would he build, Ten thousand great ideas fill'd his mind;

But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace behind.

With him was sometimes join'd, in silent walk
(Profoundly silent, for they never spoke),
One shyer still, who quite detested talk:
Oft, stung by spleen, at once away he broke
To groves of pine, and broad o'ershadowing oak;
There, inly thrill'd, he wander'd all alone,

And on himself his pensive fury wroke,

Ne ever utter'd word save when first shone The glittering star of eve-"Thank Heaven! the day is done."