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FROM THE CASTLE OF INDO

LENCE.

EXTERIOR OF THE CASTLE.

owly dale, fast by a river's side,

With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round,

A most enchanting wizard did abide,
Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere
found.

And there a season atween June and May,
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground;

Half-pranked with spring, with summer half-embrowned,

A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, Ne living wight could work, ne cared even for play.

Was naught around but images of rest;

Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between,

And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest

From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green,

Where never yet was creeping creature

seen.

Meantime, unnumbered glittering streamlets

played

And hurled everywhere their waters sheen, That, as they bickered through the sunny glade,

Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.

Joined to the prattle of the purling rills

Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills, And vacant shepherds piping in the dale; And now and then, sweet Philomel, Or stockdoves plain amid the forest deep,

That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; And still a coil the grasshopper did keep; Yet all these sounds yblent inclined to sleep. Full in the passage of the vale, above,

A sable, silent, solemn forest stood, Where naught but shadowy forms was seen to move,

As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood; And up the hills, on either side, a wood Of blackening pines, ay waving to and fro, Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; And where this valley winded out, below, The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye,

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,

Forever flushing round the summer sky; There eke the soft delights, that witchingly Instill a wanton sweetness through the breast; And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh;

But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest,

Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale; Reclining lovers, in the lonely dale, Poured forth at large the sweetly tortured heard;

Or, sighing tender passion, swelled the gale, And taught charmed echo to resound their smart;

While flocks, woods, streams around, repose and peace impart.

Was far, far off dispelled from this delicious Those pleased the most, where, by a cunning

nest.

INTERIOR OF THE CASTLE.

The doors, that knew no shrill, alarming bell, Ne cursed knocker plied by villain's hand, Self-opened into halls, where who can tell What elegance and grandeur far 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 everywhere huge covered tables stood, With wines high-flavored 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.

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 one great rule for all: To wit, that each might 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 what, 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,

hand,

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THE GUESTS.

(The portraits given are those of Quin, the actor, Thomson himself, and his friend Dr. Murdoch. The stanza describing Thomson was contributed by Lord Lyttleton.) Here whilom ligged the Esopus of the age; But called by fame, in soul ypricked deep, A noble pride restored him to the stage,

And roused him like a giant from his sleep. Even from his slumbers we advantage reap; With double force the enlivened 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 the enlightened judgment shakes.

A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems,

Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain, On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes, Poured forth his unpremeditated strain; The world forsaking with a calm disdain, Here laughed he careless in his easy seat; Here quaffed, encircled with the joyous train,

Oft moralizing sage; his ditty sweet

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 marked amid the fry! He had a roguish twinkle in his eye, And shone all glittering with ungodly dew, If a tight damsel chanced to trippen by; Which, when observed, he shrunk into his mew,

And straight would recollect his piety anew. JAMES THOMSON.

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Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields; There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds,

The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air; Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare; Art, glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair.

Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground;

No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, But one vast realm of wonder spreads around,

And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, Till the sense aches with gazing to behold The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt

upon:

Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold

Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone:

Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares grey Marathon.

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same;

Unchanged in all except its foreign lordPreserves alike its bounds and boundless

fame;

The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas'

sword,

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でも

ITALY.

(From "Pictures from Italy.")

HAT light is shed upon the world at this day, from amidst these rugged palaces of Florence! Here, open to all comers, in their beautiful and calm retreats, the ancient sculptors are immortal, side by side with Michael Angelo, Canova, Titian, Rembrandt, Raphael, poets, historians, philosophers—those illustrious men of history, be side whom its crowned head and harnessed warriors show so poor and small, and are so soon forgotten. Here, the imperishable part of noble minds survives, placid and equal, when strongholds of assault and defence are overthrown; when the tyranny of the many, or the few, or both, is but a tale; when pride and power are so much cloistered dust. The fire within the stern streets, and among the massive palaces and towers, kindled by rays from heaven, is still burning brightly, when the flickering of war is extinguished, and the household fires of generations have decayed: as thousands upon thousands of faces, rigid with the strife and passion of the hour, have faded out of the old squares and public haunts, while the nameless Florentine lady, preserved from oblivion by a painter's hand, yet lives on in enduring grace and truth.

Let us look back on Florence while we may, and when its shining dome is seen no more, go travelling through cheerful Tuscany, with a bright remembrance of it; for Italy will be the fairer for the recollection. The summer time being come; and Genoa, and Milan, and the Lake of Como lying far behind us; and we resting at Faido, a Swiss village, near the awfu rocks and mountains, the everlasting snows and roaring cataracts, of the Great St. Gothard hearing the Italian tongue for the last time on this journey; let us part from Italy, with all its miseries and wrongs, affectionately, in our admiration of the beauties, natural and artificia of which it is full to overflowing, and in our tenderness towards a people naturally well disposed, and patient, and sweet-tempered. Years of neglect, oppression, and misrule, have been at work, to change their nature and reduce their spirit; miserable jealousies fomented by petty princes to whom union was destruction, and division strength, have been a canker s the root of their nationality, and have barbarized their language; but the good that was in them ever, is in them yet, and a noble people may be one day raised up from these ashes. Lể us entertain that hope! And let us not remember Italy the less regardfully, because in ever! fragment of her fallen temples, and every stone of her deserted palaces and prisons, she helpe

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