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. Then would a splendid city rise to view, And now they whisper'd close,now shrugging rear'd Than forth they various rush in mighty fret! cares, In comes another set, and kicketh them down stairs. But what most shew'd the vanity of life, Was to behold the nations all on fire, In cruel broils engag'd, and deadly strife: Most Christian kings, enflam'd by black desire, With honourable ruffians in their hire, Cause war to rage, and blood around to pour : Of this sad work when each begins to tire, They sit them down just where they were before, Till for new scenes of woe peace shall their force restore. To number up the thousands dwelling here, An useless were, and eke an endless task; .From kings, and those who at the helm appear, To gypsies brown in summer-glades who bask. Yea many a man, perdie, I could unmask, Whose desk and table make a solemn show, With tape-tied trash, and suits of fools that ask For place or pension, laid in decent row; But these I passen by, with nameless numbers moe. Of all the gentle tenants of the place, To noon-tide shades incontinent he ran, Of light sat trembling on the welkin's bound; Then homeward thro' the twilight shadows stray, Sauntering and slow. So had he passed many a day. Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they past: And mark'd the clouds that drove before the wind, 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.' Here lurch'd a wretch who had not crept abroad For forty years, ne face of mortal seen; In chamber brooding like a loathly toad: And sure his linen was not very clean. Thro' secret loop-holes, that had practis'd been Near to his bed, his dinner vile he took; Unkempt, and rough, of squalid face and mien, Our castle's shame! whence, from his filthy nook, We drove the villain out for fitter lair to look. One day there chanc'd 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 tho' 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 e'en pleasure to excess is good: What most elates then sinks the soul as low: When spring-tide joy pours in with copious flood, The higher still th' exulting billows flow, The farther back again they flagging go, And leave us groveling 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, the 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, Tunes up amid these airy halls his song, Soothing at first the gay reposing throng: And oft he sips their bowl; or nearly drown'd, He, thence recovering, drives their beds among, And scares their tender sleep, with tromp profound; Then out again he flies, to wing his mazy round.. Another guest there was, of sense refin'd, Who felt each worth, for every worth he had; Serene yet warm, humane yet firm his mind, As little touch'd as any man's with bad: Him through their inmost walks the Muses lad, To him the sacred love of nature lent, And sometimes would he make our valley glad; Whenas 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! Here whilom ligg'd th' Esopus of the age; A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems; He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat. Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod, Of clerks good plenty here you mote espy. A little, round, fat, oily man of God, Was one I chiefly mark'd among the fry; He had a roguish twinkle in his eye, And shone all glittering with ungodly dew, If a tight damsel chanc'd to trippen by; Which when observ'd, he shrunk into his mew, And strait would recollect his piety anew. Nor be forgot a tribe, who minded nought (Old inmates of the place) but state affairs: They look'd, perdie, as if they deeply thought; And on their brow sat every nation's cares: The world by them is parcel'd out in shares, When in the Hall of Smoke they congress hold, And the sage berry sun-burnt Mocha bears Has clear'd their inward eye: then smoke-enroll'd, Their oracles break forth mysterious as of old. Here languid beauty kept her pale-fac'd court: To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom: But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel, and loom. |