66 "In dolorous mansion long you must bemoan "His fatal charms, and weep your stains away : Till, soft and pure as infant goodness grown, "You feel a perfect change: then, who can say, "What grace may yet shine forth in heaven's eternal day This said, his powerful wand he wav'd anew: Sweet love their looks a gentle radiance lends, In which they bade each lenient aid be nigh, It was a worthy edifying sight, And gives to human-kind peculiar grace, The fear supreme, around their soften'd beds, Attended by a glad acclaiming train, Of those he rescued had from gaping hell, Then turn'd the knight; and, to his hall again Soft-pacing, sought of peace the mossy cell: Yet down his cheeks the gems of pity fell, To see the helpless wretches that remain'd, There left through delves and deserts dire to yell; Amaz'd, their looks with pale dismay were stain'd, And spreading wide their hands they meek repentance feign'd. But, ah! their scorned day of grace was past: For (horrible to tell!) a desert wild Before them stretch'd, bare, comfortless, and vast ; With gibbets, bones, and carcases defil'd. There nor trim field, nor lively culture smil'd; Through which they floundering toil'd with painful care, Whilst Phoebus smote them sore, and fir'd the cloudless air. Then, varying to a joyless land of bogs, The sadden'd country a gray waste appear'd; Where nought but putrid streams and noisome fogs For ever hung on drizzly Auster's beard; Or else the ground by piercing Caurus sear'd, Was jagg'd with frost, or heap'd with glazed snow: Through these extremes a ceaseless round they steer'd, By cruel fiends still hurry'd to and fro, Gaunt beggary, and scorn, with many hell-hounds moe. The first was with base dunghill rags yclad, And dogs, where-e'er he went, still barked all the while. Hell holds none worse in baleful bower below: With nose up-turn'd, he always made a show Such were the twain that off drove this ungodly fry. The filthy beasts, that never chew the cud, Still grunt, and squeak, and sing their troublous song, Ne ever find they rest from their unresting fone. AN EXPLANATION OF THE OBSOLETE WORDS USED IN THE CASTLE OF DOLENCE. The foregoing 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. And the style of that admirable poet, as well as the measure in which he wrote, are, as it were, appropriated by custom to allegorical poems writ in our language; just as in French the style of Marot, who lived under Francis I. has been used in tales and familiar epistles, by the politest writers of the age of Louis XIV. Archimage---the chief or greatest of Nathless---nevertheless. magicians or enchanters. Apaid---paid. Appal---affright. Atween-between. Ay---always. Bale---sorrow, trouble, misfortune. Benempt---named. Blazon---painting, displaying. Dan---a word prefixed to names. Depainted---painted. Drowsy-head---drowsiness. Eath---easy. Eftsoons--immediately, often after wards. Eke---also. Fays---fairies. Ne---nor. Gear or Geer---furniture, equipage, Unkempt (Lat. incomptus) una dress. dorned. TO MR. THOMSON, ON HIS UNFINISHED PLAN OF A POEM, CALLED THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE, IN SPENSER'S STYLE. BY DR. MORELL. As when the silk worm, erst the tender care From his sleek sides, that now much sleeker are, He rests supine, imprison'd in the maze, The which himself did make, the gathering of his days. So thou, they say, from thy prolific brain, But Venus, suffering not her favourite worm Instructs him to throw off his pristine form, When, lo! eftsoons from the surrounding gloom, And buzzing speaks his joy in most expressive sound. So may the god of science and of wit, Like thine own hero dight, fliest o'er the plains, Chaunting his peerless praise in never-dying strains. SONG. HARD is the fate of him who loves, But to the lonely listening plain. Oh! when she blesses next your shade, In flowery tracts along the mead, In fresher mazes o'er the green, Ye gentle spirits of the vale, To whom the tears of love are dear, From dying lilies waft a gale, And sigh my sorrows in her ear. O, tell her what she cannot blame, Not her own guardian angel eyes Not purer her own wishes rise, Not holier her own sighs in prayer. But, if, at first, her virgin fear Should start at love's suspected name, With that of friendship soothe her earTrue love and friendship are the same. |