Sir Genius now the Cave of Error sees;
And pierces every glade, by Truth yled:
She darts fierce noon-day through th' illumin'd trees,
And braids with lucid stars her champion's head.
"Who thus presumes to face my presence dread,
And draws along this hostile line of light?
Who thus unhallow'd burns my downy bed?
I know the now; 'tis Genius, recreant knight:
Imps, bear the ruthless villain from my blasted
sight."
So spoke the darksome fiend, in wild amaze;
Nought did the knight in answer yet rejoin,
But slow presented to his steadfast gaze
A tome which did with golden letters shine;
PERFECTION (hight) OF MINSTRELSYE DIVINE.
Soon as the name he saw, with conquer'd pride
Thrice he essay'd to kneel before such shrine;
But, as with horrent air each word he eyed,
Lifeless th' enchaunter fell, and fiercely foaming
died.
This when sir Genius saw, with mickle joy
A magic horn he to his lips applied;
Stunn'd with the sound, each other fiends destroy,
And lie unmourned by their master's side.
The while the redcross knight of horror void,
Doth tune the fibres of his breast to pleasure;
And 'mongst the clouds is gloriously espied
The magic horn, of Fame the sounding treasure,
Which gives to every wight renown'd impartial
AWAY, ye Cares; ye black-brow'd Cares, away
Must mortal man aye drag your galling chain?
Away! the sun sits monarch of the day,
The glorious sun; and guides his glitt'ring wain,
His wheels half-hanging o'er the western main.
I drink the influence of his balmy light:
I feel the hot tide throb through every vein :
Young Transport calls, in purple pleasures dight.
Young Transport calls, and why should I remain ?
No let me shun thy shades, and join her jovial train.
What though the haughty patron damns my song,
And Malice looks with meagre eye askance?
I'll trip the daisied meadows blithe along,
Braid my loose locks and mingle in the dance.
Not Pride can break this dear delicious trance;
Not Envy style this sylvan joyance wrong.
For who can bound the pennons of the soul?
Who mar those scenes I love to rove among?
Ne mortal word the sweet flow'rs can control;
Or bid the pausing sun frown grim, and cease to roll.
Though Greatness turns away, the rill will pour
In liquid measure from its channell❜d bed ;
The surge will gleam, and kiss the golden shore;
The blue-topp'd mount will lift his awful head.
Though poverty may rule my humble shed,
The teeming wild will grant an unbought store;
The briar will blow, the living nectar spring,
The vernal rushes strew the fragrant floor :
Dainties, in sooth, that well might please a king.
Then cast thy woes aside, and hymus of comfort
sing.
The lark is merry though he has no hoard;
The blackbird carols though his house is gone;
Come, spendthrift, come, and feed at Nature's board;
Nature's unkind to luxury alone.
Nor pains nor aches shall vex each tortur'd bone;
Temperance no room for sickness may afford.
Rise with thy brother-bards, in social glee:
The morn will put her brightest purple on.
Fools of this world! what wight would spleen-sick be,
If he could roam at large, and chaunt his joys, with
With bards long gone celestial converse hold,
And court coy fancy in her woodbound bow'r ;
What time, as by sage Beldames we are told,
Aerial warblings charm the solemn hour;
While marshall'd elves their glitt'ring glow-worm
And "drowsy tinklings lull the distant fold;'
What time bright spirits load the wing of eve,
And frenzy'd minstrels wond'rous sights behold.
Those with soft dreams thy spirit shall relieve,
Till fancy brilliant wreaths of fabled verdure give.
Beneath the awful foliage of yon oak
That shudders at the eddying pool below;
Where abbey-aisles rebound the woodman's stroke
And sister-currents wildly-dimpling flow;
There thou, who bear'st the bitter weight of woe,
Mayst all thy scenes of happier youth revoke;
Nought shall intrude, save when the silver trout
Haply should spring from stripling's hairy yoke;
Comus will never lead his revel rout
To stun thy feelings there with bacchanalian shout.
Those walls, enwrought with age's with'ring grey,
Where hoary blossoms crown the turret's brow,
Ne'er echo to the drunkard's wassail lay.
Here sighs the lover his immortal vow,
Here weeps the friend his parted friend below:
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