fly, Through which his half-waked soul would faintly peep. Then, taking his black staff, he called his man, And roused himself as much as rouse himself he can. The lad leaped lightly at his master's call. He was, to weet,' a little roguish page, Save sleep and play who minded nought at all, Like most the untaught striplings of his age. This boy he kept each band to disen gage, Garters and buckles, task for him unfit, But ill-becoming his grave personage, And which his portly paunch would not permit. But often each way look, and often 225 So this same limber page to all per sorely sigh. formed it. Sir Porter sat him down, and turned to sleep again. A stream, high-spouting from its liquid bed, And falling back again in drizzly dew: There each deep draughts, as deep he thirsted, drew; It was a fountain of Nepenthe2 rare: Whence, as Dan3 Homer sings, huge pleasaunce grew, 1 as far as one could tell 2 A drug which causes forgetfulness of pain and sorrow. Lord; master Odyssey, 4, 220 fr. 300 305 310 Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful 330 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 pleasures pall. our 335 340 ease. Aerial music in the warbling wind, At distance rising oft, by small degrees, Nearer and nearer came, till o'er the trees It hung, and breathed such soul-dissolving airs As did, alas! with soft perdition please: Entangled deep in its enchanting snares, The listening heart forgot all duties and all cares. A certain music, never known before, Here soothed the pensive melancholy mind; Full easily obtained. Behoves no more, But sidelong to the gently-waving wind To lay the well-tuned instrument reclined; From which, with airy flying fingers light, Beyond each mortal touch the most refined, The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight: 360 Whence, with just cause, the Harp of Eolus it hight. |