Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies; Or savage Rosa dash'd, or learned Poussin drew. At distance rising oft by small degrees, 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? 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, Such the gay splendour, the luxurious state, Held their bright court, where was of ladies store, And verse, love, music, still the garland wore: Near the pavilions where we slept still ran 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, O'er which were shadowy cast Elysian gleams, So fleece with clouds the pure ethereal space; Than these same guileful angel-seeming sprights, Who thus in dreams voluptuous, soft, and bland, Pour'd all th' Arabian heaven upon her nights, And bless'd them oft besides with more refined delights. Of all the gentle tenants of the place, There was a man of special grave remark: As sooth this man could sing as morning-lark, And teach the noblest morals of the heart: But these his talents were yburied stark; Of the fine stores he nothing would impart, Which or boon Nature gave, or nature-painting Art. To noontide shades incontinent he ran, Of light sat trembling on the welkin's bound; Then homeward through the twilight shadows stray, Sauntering and slow. So had he passed many a day. Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they passed; Oft as he traversed the cerulean field, And mark'd the clouds that drove before the wind, Ten thousand glorious systems would he build, Ten thousand great ideas fill'd his mind; But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace behind. With him was sometimes join'd, in silent walk Ne ever utter'd word save when first shone The glittering star of eve-"Thank Heaven! the day is done." One day there chaunced into these halls to rove A joyous youth who took you at first sight; Him the wild wave of pleasure hither drove, Before the sprightly tempest-tossing light: Certes, he was a most engaging wight, Of social glee, and wit humane, though keen, Turning the night to day, and day to night: For him the merry bells had rung, I ween, If in this nook of quiet bells had ever been. But not ev'n pleasure to excess is good; What most elates then sinks the soul as low: When springtide joy pours in with copious flood, The higher still th' exulting billows flow, The farther back again they flagging go, And leave us grovelling on the dreary shore : Taught by this son of joy, we found it so; Who, whilst he staid, kept in a gay uproar Our madden'd castle all, th' abode of sleep no more. As when in prime of June a burnish'd fly, Sprung from the meads, o'er which he sweeps along, Cheer'd by the breathing bloom and vital sky, Another guest there was, of sense refined, And sometimes would he make our valley glad. When, as we found he would not here be pent, To him the better sort this friendly message sent: “Come, dwell with us! true son of virtue, come! But if, alas! we cannot thee persuade To lie content beneath our peaceful dome, Shall dead thy fire, and damp its heavenly spark, Here whilom ligg'd th' Esopus of the age; But call'd by fame, in soul ypricked deep, A noble pride restored him to the stage, And roused him like a giant from his sleep. Ev'n from his slumbers we advantage reap: With double force th' enliven'd scene he wakes, Yet quits not nature's bounds. He knows to keep Each due decorum: now the heart he shakes, And now with well-urged sense th' enlighten'd judgment takes. A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems; He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat. |