Sometimes the pencil, in cool hairy halls, Bade the gay gloom of vernal landscapes rise, Or autumn's varied shades embrown 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 Lorrain light touch'd with softening hue, Or savage Rosa dash'd, or learned Poussin drew.

Each sound, too, here to languishment inclin’d,
Lull'd the weak bosom, and induced ease;
Aerial music in the warbling wind,

At distance rising oft, by small degrees,
Nearer and nearer came, till o'er the trees

It hung, and breath'd such soul-dissolving airs
As did, alas! with soft perdition please:
Entangled deep in its enchanting snares,

The listening heart forgot all duties and all cares.

A certain music, never known before, Here lull'd the pensive melancholy mind; Full easily obtain'd. Behoves no more, But side-long, to the gently-waving wind, To lay the well-tun'd instrument reclin'd, From which, with airy-flying fingers light, Beyond each mortal touch the most refin'd, 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 diapasan 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 breath'd, in tender musings, through the heart;
And now a graver sacred strain they stole,
As when seraphic hands an hymn impart;
Wide-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 pavillions 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, threat'ning, 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 our nights, And bless'd them oft besides with more refin'd delights.

They were in sooth a most enchanting train,
E'en feigning virtue; skilful to unite

With evil good, and strew with pleasure pain :
But for those fiends whom blood and broils delight,
Who hurl the wretch, as if to hell outright.
Down, down black gulphs, where sullen waters sleep,
Or hold him clambering all the fearful night
On beetling cliffs, or pent in ruins deep,

They, till due time shall serve, were bid far hence

to keep.

Ye guardian spirits! to whom man is dear, From these foul demons shield the midnight gloom: Angels of faney, and of love! be near,

And o'er the blank of sleep diffuse a bloom :
Evoke the sacred shades of Greece and Rome,
And let them virtue with a look impart;
But chief a while, O! lend us from the tomb
Those long-lost friends for whom in love we smart,
And fill with pious awe and joy-mixt woe the heart.

Or are you sportive?—Bid the morn of youth Rise to new light, and beam afresh the days Of innocence, simplicity, and truth, To cares estrang'd, and manhood's thorny ways. What transport, to retrace our boyish plays, Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supply'd, The woods, the mountains, and the warbling maze Of the wild brooks!-But, fondly wand'ring wide, My Muse! resume the task that yet doth thee abide.

One great amusement of our household was,
In a huge crystal magic globe to spy,
Still as you turn'd it, all things that do pass,
Upon this ant-hill earth! where constantly
Of idle busy men the restless fry

Run bustling to and fro with foolish haste,
In search of pleasures vain that from them fly,
Or, which obtain'd, the caitiffs dare not taste:
When nothing is enjoy'd, can there be greater waste?

Of vanity the mirrour this was call'd.
Here you a muck-worm of the town might see,
At his dull desk, amid his ledgers stall'd,
Ate up with carking care and penury,
Most like to carcase parch'd on gallow-tree,

“A penny saved is a penny got;"

Firm to this scoundrel maxim keepeth he,
Ne of its rigour will he bate a jot,

Till it has quench'd his fire and banished his pot.

Straight from the filth of this low grub, behold!
Comes fluttering forth a gaudy spendthrift heir,
All glossy gay, enamell'd all with gold,
The silly tenant of the summer air,

In folly lost, of nothing takes he care;
Pimps, lawyers, stewards, harlots, flatterers vile,
And thieving tradesmen, him among them share;
His father's ghost from Limbo-like, the while,
Sees this, which more damnation doth upon him pile.

This globe pourtray'd the race of learned men Still at their books, and turning o'er the page Backwards and forwards: oft they snatch the pen, As if inspir'd, and in a Thespian rage,

Then write, and blot, as would your ruth engage. Why, Authors! all this scrawl and scribbling sore? To lose the present, gain the future age,

Praised to be when you can hear no more,

And much enrich'd with fame when useless worldly store?