Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me,
When that rash humour which my mother gave me,
Makes me forgetful?

Bru. Yes, Cassius; and henceforth,
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

LESSON CCII.

Description of the Castle of Indolence, and its inhabitants.— THOMSON.*

YE gods of quiet, and of sleep profound!

Whose soft dominion o'er this 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 moulted wing?

The doors, that knew no shrill alarming bell,

Net cursed knocker plied by villain's hand, Self-opened 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 stretched around in seemly band,
And endless pillows rise to prop the head;
So that each spacious room was one full-swelling bed.

And every where huge covered tables stood,

With wines high flavoured and rich viands crowned; Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food

On the green bosom of this Earth are found, And all old Ocean genders in his round: Some hand unseen these silently displayed, Even undemanded by a sign or sound; You need but wish, and, instantly obeyed, Fair ranged the dishes rose, and thick the glasses played.

* This poem being writ in the manner of Spenser, the obsolete words, and a simplicity of diction in some of the lines, which borders on the ludicrous, were necessary to make the imitation more perfect. Author. + Ne, nor.

Here Freedom reigned without the least alloy;
Nor gossip's tale, nor ancient maiden's gall,
Nor saintly spleen, durst murmur at our joy,
And with envenomed tongue our pleasures pall
For why? there was but one great rule for all;
To wit, that each should work his own desire,
And eat, drink, study, sleep, as it may fall,
Or melt the time in love, or wake the lyre,
And carol hat, 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,
Poured forth at large the sweetly tortured heart,
Or, sighing tender passion, swelled the gale,
And taught charmed Echo to resound their smart,
While flocks, woods, streams, around, repose and peace impart.

Each sound, too, here, to languishment inclined,
Lulled the weak bosom, and induced ease:
Aërial musick 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 forgot all duties and all cares.

A certain musick, never known before,

Here lulled the pensive melancholy mind; Full easily obtained. Behoves 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 Eolus 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?

Hight, named, called; and sometimes it is used for is called.

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 seraphick hands a hymn impart ; Wild-warbling Nature all, above the reach of Art!

And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams,
Raising a world of gayer tinct and grace,
O'er which were shadowy cast Elysian gleams,
That played, in waving lights, from place to place,
And shed a roseate smile on Nature's face.
Not Titian's pencil e'er could so array,

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

Here languid Beauty kept her pale-faced court:
Bevies of dainty dames, of high degree,
From every quarter hither made resort;

Where, from gross mortal care and business free,
They lay, poured out ir ease and luxury :
Or should they a vain show of work assume,
Alas! and well-a-day! what can it be?
To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom;
But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel, and loom.

Their only labour was to kill the time;
And labour dire it is, and weary wo:

They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme,
Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go,

Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow: This soon too rude an exercise they find;

Strait on the couch their limbs again they throw, Where hours on hours they sighing lie reclined, And court the vapoury god soft-breathing in the wind.

Now must I mark the villany we found;

But, ah! too late, as shall eftsoons* be shown. A place here was, deep, dreary, under ground,

Where still our inmates, when unpleasing grown, Diseased, and loathsome, privily were thrown. Far from the light of heaven, they languished there Unpitied, uttering many a bitter groan; For of these wretches taken was no care: Fierce fiends, and hags of hell, their only nurses were. * Eftsoons, imusdiately, often, afterwards.

Alas! the change! from scenes of joy and rest,
To this dark den, where Sickness tossed alway.
Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep opprest,

Stretched on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay,
Heaving his sides, and snoring night and day;
To stir him from his traunce it was not eath,*

And his half-opened eyne he shut straightway; He led, I wot, the softest way to death, And taught withoutent pain and strife to yield the breath.

Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound,

Soft-swoln and pale, here lay the Hydropsy: Unwieldy man! with belly monstrous round, For ever fed with watery supply :

For still he drank, and yet he still was dry, And moping here did Hypochondria sit,

Mother of Spleen, in robes of various dye, Who vexed was full oft with ugly fit; And some her frantick deemed, and some her deemed a wit.

A lady proud she was, of ancient blood,

Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchent low; She felt, or fancied, in her fluttering mood,

All the diseases which the spitals know,

And sought all physick which the shops bestow, And still new leaches and new drugs would try, Her humour ever wavering to and fro;

For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry, Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why,

Fast by her side a listless maiden pined,

With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings ; Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind, Yet loved in secret all forbidden things.

And here the Tertian shakes his chilling wings: The sleepless Gout here counts the crowing cocks; A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings; Whilst Apoplexy crammed Intemperance knocks Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox.

*Eath, easy. + En is often placed at the end of a word by Spenser, to lengthen it a syllable.

LESSON CCIIL

Address of the Bard, in the train of Industry, to the inhabitants of the Castle of Indolence.-IBID.

THE bard obeyed; and taking from his side,
Where it in seemly sort depending hung,
His British harp, its speaking strings he tried,
The which with skilful touch he deftly strung,
Till tinkling in clear symphony they rung.
Then, as he felt the Muses come along,

Light o'er the chords his raptured hand he flung, And played a prelude to his rising song;

The whilst, like midnight mute, ten thousands round him

throng.

Thus, ardent, burst his strain-"Ye hapless race!
Dire labouring here to smother reason's ray,
That lights our Maker's image in our face,

And gives us wide o'er earth unquestioned sway,
What is the adored Supreme Perfection? say,
What, but eternal never-resting soul,

Almighty power, and all-directing day,
By whom each atom stirs, the planets roll;
Who fills, surrounds, informs, and agitates the whole.
"Come, to the beaming God your hearts unfold!

Draw from its fountain life! 'Tis thence, alone,
We can excel. Up, from unfeeling mould,

To seraphs, burning round the Almighty's throne,
Life rising still on life, in higher tone,
Perfection forms, and with perfection bliss.
In universal nature this is shown,

Nor needeth proof: to prove it were, I wis,*
To prove the beauteous world excels the brute abyss,

"Is not the field, with lively culture green,

A sight more joyous than the dead morass? Do not the skies, with active ether clean,

And fanned by sprightly Zephyrs, far surpass
The foul November fogs, and slumberous mass,
With which sad Nature. veils her drooping face?

Does not the mountain-stream, as clear as glass,
Gay-dancing on, the putrid pool disgrace?
The same in all holds true, but chief in human race
*Wis, for wist, to know, think, understand.