I care not, Fortune! what you me deny; You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shews her brightening face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve; Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave: Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave. Come then, my Muse! and raise a bolder song; Come, lig no more upon the bed of sloth, Dragging the lazy languid line along, Fond to begin, but still to finish loath, Thy half-writ scrolls all eaten by the moth: Arise, and sing that generous imp of fame, Who with the sons of Softness nobly wroth, To sweep away this human lumber came, Or in a chosen few to rouse the slumbering flame. In fairy land there liv'd a knight of old, Of feature stern, Selvaggio well yclep'd, A rough unpolish'd man, robust and bold, But wondrous poor; he neither sow'd nor reap'd, Ne stores in summer for cold winter heap'd; In hunting all his days away he wore; Now scorch'd by June, now in November steep'd, Now pinch'd by biting January sore, He still in woods pursu'd the libbard and the boar. As he one morning, long before the dawn, Prick'd through the forest to dislodge his prey, Deep in the winding bosom of a lawn, With wood wild-fring'd, he mark'd a taper's ray, Amid the green-wood shade this boy was bred, And grew at last a knight of muckle fame, Of active mind and vigorous lustyhed, The Knight of Arts and Industry by name. Earth was his bed, the boughs his roof did frame, He knew no beverage but the flowing stream; His tasteful well-earn'd food the sylvan game, Or the brown fruit with which the woodlands teem: The same to him glad summer or the winter breme: So pass'd his youthful morning, void of care, Wild as the colts that through the commons run, For him no tender parents troubled were, He of the forest seem'd to be the son, And certes had been utterly undone, But that Minerva pity of him took, With all the gods that love the rural wonne, That teach to tame the soil and rule the crook; Ne did the sacred Nine disdain a gentle look. Of fertile genius him they nurtur'd well, In every science and in every art, By which mankind the thoughtless brutes excel, That brace the nerves, or make the limbs alert, Was never knight on ground mote be with him compar❜d. Sometimes, with early morn, he mounted gay Yclad in steel, and bright with burnish'd mail, Or strenuous wrestled hard with many a tough compeer. At other times he pry'd through Nature's store, Or else he scann'd the globe, those small domains, Nor would he scorn to stoop from high pursuits Of heavenly Truth, and practise what she taught. Vain is the tree of Knowledge without fruits, Sometimes in hand the spade or plough he caught. Forth-calling all with which boon earth is fraught; Sometimes he ply'd the strong mechanic tool, Or rear'd the fabric from the finest draught; And oft he put himself to Neptune's school, Fighting with winds and waves on the vext ocean pool. To solace then these rougher toils, he try'd To touch the kindling canvas into life; With Nature his creating pencil vied, With Nature, joyous at the mimic strife: Or, to such shapes as grac'd Pygmalion's wife, He hew'd the marble; or, with varied fire, He rous'd the trumpet and the martial fife; Or bade the lute sweet tenderness inspire; Or verses fram'd that well might wake Apollo's lyre. Accomplish'd thus, he from the woods issu'd, Full of great aims, and bent on bold emprize; The work which long he in his breast had brew'd Now to perform he ardent did devise, To wit, a barbarous world to civilize. Earth was till then a boundless forest wild, Nought to be seen but savage wood and skies; No cities nourish'd arts, no culture smil'd, No government, no laws, no gentle manners mild. A rugged wight, the worst of brutes was man ; And guile and ruffian force were all their trade. It would exceed the purport of my song, To say how this best sun, from orient climes Came beaming life and beauty all along, Before him chasing Indolence and crimes, Still as he pass'd, the nations he sublimes, And calls forth arts and virtues with his ray: Then Egypt, Greece, and Rome, their golden times Successive had; but now in ruins grey They lie, to slavish sloth and tyranny a prey. To crown his toils, Sir Industry then spread The swelling sail, and made for Britain's coast. A sylvan life till then the natives led, In the brown shades and green-wood forest lost, All careless rambling where it lik'd them most: Their wealth the wild deer bouncing thro' the glade; They lodg'd at large, and liv'd at Nature's cost; Save spear and bow, withouten other aid, Yet not the Roman steel their naked breast dismay'd. |