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 agravate our pains.'
69. 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 quells the brand by which the rocks are riven ; She more than merely softens-she rejoices Heaven.
70. 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 win you to the
71. 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 [day?'
What grace may yet shine forth in Heaven's eternal
72. 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 leads,
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.
73. 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 dispreads.
74. Attended by a glad acclaiming train
Of those he rescu'd 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 dells 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.
75. 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 carcasses 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 pil'd,
Thro' which they floundering toil'd with painful care, Whilst Phoebus smote them sore,and fir'd the cloudless air.
76. 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; Thro' 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
77. 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! a heart-appalling sight!
Meantime foul scurf and blotches him defile,
And dogs, where'er he went, still barked all the while.
78. 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, if good or bad, the foe:
With nose upturn'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 castern forth most bitterly.
Such were the twain that off drove this ungodly fry.
79. Even so through Brentford town, a town of mud, A herd of bristly swine is prick'd along,
The filthy beasts, that never chew the cud,
Still grunt, and squeak, and sing their troublous song, And oft they plunge themselves the mire among;
But ay the ruthless driver goads them on,
And ay of barking dogs the bitter throng
Makes them renew their unmelodious moan;
Ne ever find they rest from their unresting tone.
ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON.
The scene of the following stanzas is supposed to lie on the Thames, near Richmond,
IN yonder grave a Druid lies,
Where slowly winds the stealing wave.
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise
To deck its poet's sylvan grave!
In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid,
That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds
May love through life the soothing shade.
Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem, in pity's ear,
To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar, To bid his gentle spirit rest!
And oft as ease and health retire,
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.
But thou! who own'st that earthly bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail?
Our tears, which love and pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail?
Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimm❜ring nea?
With him, sweet bard, may fancy die,
And joy desert the blooming year.
But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!
And see the fairy valleys fade;
Dun night has veil'd the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's child, again adieu !
The genial meads assign'd to bless
Thy life shall mourn thy early doom:
Their hinds, and shepherd-girls, shall dress,
With simple hands, thy rural tomb.
Long, long, thy stone, and pointed clay,
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes!
O! vales, and wild woods, shall he say
In yonder grave your Druid lies!
EPITAPH ON MR. THOMSON,
OTHERS to marble may their glory owe,
And boast those honours Sculpture can bestow;
Short-lived renown! that every moment must
Sink with its emblem, and consume to dust!
But Thomson needs no artist to engrave,
From dumb oblivion no device to save;
Such vulgar aids let names inferior ask ;
Nature for him assumes herself the task;
The Seasons are his monuments of fame,
With them to flourish, for from them it came.
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