XLVII. Ye guardian spirits, to whom man is dear, From these foul demons shield the midnight gloom: And o'er the blank of sleep diffuse a bloom: But chief, a while, O! lend us from the tomb Those long-lost friends for whom in love we smart, And fill with pious awe and joy-mixt woe the heart. XLVIII. Or are you sportive-Bid the morn of youth To cares estranged, and manhood's thorny ways. 1 Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied; The woods, the mountains, and the warbling maze Of the wild brooks!-But, fondly wandering wide, My Muse, resume the task that yet doth thee abide. XLIX. One great amusement of our household was, Run bustling to and fro with foolish haste, When nothing is enjoy'd, can there be greater waste? L. Of vanity the mirror this was call'd. Firm to this scoundrel maxim keepeth he, Till it has quench'd his fire, and banished his pot. LI. Straight from the filth of this low grub, behold! Comes fluttering forth a gaudy spendthrift heir, All glossy gay, enamel'd all with gold, The silly tenant of the summer-air, In folly lost, of nothing takes he care; Pimps, lawyers, stewards, harlots, flatterers vile, And thieving tradesmen him among them share: His father's ghost from limbo-lake, the while, Sees this, which more damnation doth upon him pile. LII. This globe pourtray'd the race of learned men, Then write, and blot, as would your ruth engage. Praised to be when you can hear no more, And much enrich'd with fame when useless worldly store. LIII. Then would a splendid city rise to view, A neighbour's fortune, fame, or peace, to blight, And make new tiresome parties for the coming night. LIV. The puzzling sons of party next appear'd, And now they whisper'd close, now shrugging rear'd New light, their twinkling eyes were inward set. Than forth they various rush in mighty fret; When, lo! push'd up to power, and crown'd their cares, In comes another set, and kicketh them down stairs. LV. But what most show'd the vanity of life, Was to behold the nations all on fire, In cruel broils engag'd, and deadly strife: Of this sad work when each begins to tire, They set them down just where they were before, Till for new scenes of woe peace shall their force restore. *The morning-star. LVI. To number up the thousands dwelling here, But these I passen by, with nameless numbers moe. LVII. Of all the gentle tenants of the place, There was a man of special grave remark: A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face, Pensive, not sad, in thought involv'd not dark, As soot 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. LVIII. To noontide shades incontinent he ran, Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound; Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began, Amid the broom he bask'd him on the ground, Where the wild thyme and chamomile are found: There would he linger, till the latest ray 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. LIX. Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they past: Oft as he travers'd the cerulean field, And mark'd the clouds that drove before the wind, But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace behind. LX. With him was sometimes join'd, in silent walk, groves of pine, and broad o'ershading oak; There, inly thrill'd, he wander'd all alone, And on himself his pensive fury wroke, Ne ever utter'd word, save when first shone The glittering star of eve-" Thank Heaven! the day is done." LXI. Here lurk'd a wretch, who had not crept abroad For forty years, ne face of mortal seen; In chamber brooding like a loathly toad: Through secret loop-holes, that had practis'd been |