And all the bow'r, with checker'd shadows strown,
Glow'd with a mellow twilight of its own.
There shouldst thou come; and there sometimes with
Might deign repair the staid Philosophy,
To taste thy fresh'ning brook, and trim thy groves,
And tell us what good task true glory loves.
I see it now!- pierce the fairy glade,
And feel th' enclosing influence of the shade.
A thousand forms that sport on summer eves,
Glance through the light, and whisper in the leaves,
While ev'ry bough seems nodding with a sprite;
And ev'ry air seems hushing the delight;
And the calm bliss, fix'd on itself a while,
Dimples th' unconscious lips into a smile.
Anon, strange music breathes; --the fairies show
Their pranksome crowd; and in grave order go
Beside the water, singing small and clear,
New harmonies unknown to mortal ear,、 HY
Caught upon moonlight nights from some nigh
wand'ring sphere.
I turn to thee, and listen with fix'd eyes,
And feel my spirits mount on winged ecstacies.
In vain. - For now with looks that doubly burn,
Sham'd of their late defeat, my foes return.
They know their foil is short; and shorter still
The bliss that waits upon the Muse's will.
Back to their seats they rush, and reassume
Their ghastly rights, and sadden all the room.
O'er ears and brain the bursting wrath descends,
Cabals, misstatements, noise of private ends,
Doubts, hazards, crosses, cloud-compelling vapours,
With dire necessity to read the papers,
Judicial slaps that would have stung Saint Paul, Costs, pityings, warnings, wits;-and, worse than all, (0 for a dose of Thelwall, or of poppy!)
The fiend, the punctual fiend, that bawls for copy!
Full in the midst, like that Gorgonian spell,
Whose rav'ning features glar'd collected hell,
The well-wigg'd pest his curling horror shakes,
And a fourth snap of threat'ning vengeance takes!
At that dread sight the Muse at last turns pale;
Freedom and fiction's self no more avail;
And lo, my Bow'r of Bliss is turn'd into a gaol
-What then? What then? my better genius cries ;-
Scandals and gaols!-All these you may despise.
Th' enduring soul, that, to keep others free,
Dares to give up its darling liberty,
Lives wheresoe'er its countrymen applaud,
And in their great enlargement walks abroad.
But toils alone, and struggles, hour by hour,
Against th' insatiate, gold-flush'd Lust of Pow'r,
Can keep the fainting virtue of thy land
From the rank slaves that gather round his hand.
Be poor in purse, and Law will soon undo thee;
Be poor in soul, and self-contempt will rue thee.
I yield, I yield-Once more I turn to you,
Harsh politics! And once more bid adieų
To the soft dreaming of the Muse's bow'rs,
Their sun streak'd fruits and fairy-painted flow'rs.
Farewell, for gentler times, ye laurell'd shades;
Farewell, ye sparkling brooks, and haunted glades,
Where the trim shapes, that bathe in moonlight eves,
Glance through the light, and whisper in the leaves,
While ev'ry bough seems nodding with a sprite,
And ev'ry air seems hushing the delight
Farewell, farewell, dear Muse, and all thy pleasure!
He conquers ease, who would be crown'd with leisure.
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