Sidebilder
PDF
ePub

LXXV.

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 carcases defil'd.

There nor trim field, nor lively culture smiled;
Nor waving shade was seen, nor fountain fair;

But sands abrupt on sands lay loosely piled,

Through which they floundering toil'd with painful care, Whilst Phoebus smote them sore, and fired the cloudless air.

LXXVI.

Then, varying to a joyless land of bogs,
The sadden'd country a grey waste appear'd;
Where nought but putrid steams 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 :
Through these extremes a ceaseless round they steer'd,
By cruel fiends still hurry'd to and fro,

Gaunt Beggary and Scorn, with many hell-hounds moe.

LXXVII.

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! an heart appalling sight!

Meantime foul scurf and blotches him defile;

And dogs, where-e'er he went, still barked all the while.

LXXVIII.

The other was a fell despiteful 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 up-turn'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 casten forth most bitterly.

Such were the twain that off drove this ungodly fry.

LXXIX.

Even so through Brentford town, a town of mud,
An 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 fone.

[blocks in formation]

ΤΟ

THE MEMORY

OF

SIR ISAAC NEWTON.

SHALL the great soul of Newton quit this earth,
To mingle with his stars; and every Muse,
Astonish'd into silence, shun the weight
Of honours due to his illustrious name?
But what can man?-Even now the sons of light,
In strains high-warbled to seraphic lyre,
Hail his arrival on the coast of bliss.

Yet am not I deterr'd, though high the theme,
And sung to harps of angels; for with you,
Ethereal flames! ambitious, I aspire

In Nature's general symphony to join.

And what new wonders can ye show your guest! Who, while on this dim spot, where mortals toil Clouded in dust, from Motion's simple laws, Could trace the secret hand of Providence, Wide-working through his universal frame.

Have ye not listen'd while he bound the suns And planets to their spheres! th' unequal task

Of human-kind till then.

O'er erring man the year,

Oft had they roll'd

and oft disgrac'd

R 2

« ForrigeFortsett »