BOOK III.EXERCISE.

Thro’ various toils th’ adventurous muse has past;But half the toil, and more than half, remains.Rude is her theme, and hardly fit for song;Plain, and of little ornament; and IBut little practis’d in th’ Aonian arts.5Yet not in vain such labours have we tried,If ought these lays the fickle health confirm.To you, ye delicate, I write; for youI tame my youth to philosophic cares,And grow still paler by the midnight lamps.10Not to debilitate with timorous rulesA hardy frame; nor needlessly to braveUnglorious dangers, proud of mortal strength;Is all the lesson that in wholsome yearsConcerns the strong. His care were ill bestow’d15Who would with warm effeminacy nurseThe thriving oak, which on the mountain’s browBears all the blasts that sweep the wintry heav’n.Behold the labourer of the glebe, who toilsIn dust, in rain, in cold and sultry skies:20Save but the grain from mildews and the flood,Nought anxious he what sickly stars ascend.He knows no laws by Esculapius given;He studies none. Yet him nor midnight fogsInfest, nor those envenom’d shafts that fly25When rabid Sirius fires th’ autumnal noon.His habit pure with plain and temperate meals,Robust with labour, and by custom steel’dTo every casualty of varied life;Serene he bears the peevish eastern blast,30And uninfected breaths the mortal South.Such the reward of rude and sober life;Of labour such. By health the peasant’s toilIs well repaid; if exercise were painIndeed, and temperance pain. By arts like these35Laconia nurs’d of old her hardy sons;And Rome’s unconquer’d legions urg’d their way,Unhurt, thro’ every toil in every clime.Toil, and be strong. By toil the flaccid nervesGrow firm, and gain a more compacted tone;40The greener juices are by toil subdu’d,Mellow’d, and subtilis’d; the vapid oldExpell’d, and all the rancor of the blood.Come, my companions, ye who feel the charmsOf nature and the year; come, let us stray45Where chance or fancy leads our roving walk:Come, while the soft voluptuous breezes fanThe fleecy heavens, enwrap the limbs in balm,And shed a charming languor o’er the soul.Nor when bright Winter sows with prickly frost50The vigorous ether, in unmanly warmthIndulge at home; nor even when Eurus’ blastsThis way and that convolve the lab’ring woods.My liberal walks, save when the skies in rainOr fogs relent, no season should confine55Or to the cloister’d gallery or arcade.Go, climb the mountain; from th’ etherial sourceImbibe the recent gale. The chearful mornBeams o’er the hills; go, mount th’ exulting steed,Already, see, the deep-mouth’d beagles catch60The tainted mazes; and, on eager sportIntent, with emulous impatience tryEach doubtful track. Or, if a nobler preyDelight you more, go chase the desperate deer;And thro’ its deepest solitudes awake65The vocal forest with the jovial horn.But if the breathless chase o’er hill and daleExceed your strength; a sport of less fatigue,Not less delightful, the prolific streamAffords. The chrystal rivulet, that o’er70A stony channel rolls its rapid maze,Swarms with the silver fry. Such, thro’ the boundsOf pastoral Stafford, runs the brawling Trent;Such Eden, sprung from Cumbrian mountains; suchThe Esk, o’erhung with woods; and such the stream75On whole Arcadian banks I first drew air,Liddal; till now, except in Doric laysTun’d to her murmurs by her love-sick swains,Unknown in song: Tho’ not a purer stream,Thro’ meads more flow’ry, or more romantic groves,80Rolls toward the western main. Hail sacred flood!May still thy hospitable swains be blestIn rural innocence; thy mountains stillTeem with the fleecy race; thy tuneful woodsFor ever flourish; and thy vales look gay85With painted meadows, and the golden grain!Oft, with thy blooming sons, when life was new,Sportive and petulant, and charm’d with toys,In thy transparent eddies have I lav’d:Oft trac’d with patient steps thy fairy banks,90With the well-imitated fly to hookThe eager trout, and with the slender lineAnd yielding rod sollicite to the shoreThe struggling panting prey; while vernal cloudsAnd tepid gales obscur’d the ruffled pool,95And from the deeps call’d forth the wanton swarms.Form’d on the Samian school, or those of Ind,There are who think these pastimes scarce humane.Yet in my mind (and not relentless I)His life is pure that wears no fouler stains.100But if thro’ genuine tenderness of heart,Or secret want of relish for the game,You shun the glories of the chace, nor careTo haunt the peopled stream; the garden yieldsA soft amusement, an humane delight.105To raise th’ insipid nature of the ground;Or tame its savage genius to the graceOf careless sweet rusticity, that seemsThe amiable result of happy chance,Is to create; and gives a god-like joy,110Which every year improves. Nor thou disdainTo check the lawless riot of the trees,To plant the grove, or turn the barren mould.O happy he! whom, when his years decline,(His fortune and his fame by worthy means115Attain’d, and equal to his moderate mind;His life approv’d by all the wise and good,Even envied by the vain) the peaceful grovesOf Epicurus, from this stormy world,Receive to rest; of all ungrateful cares120Absolv’d, and sacred from the selfish crowd.Happiest of men! if the same soil invitesA chosen few, companions of his youth,Once fellow-rakes perhaps, now rural friends;With whom in easy commerce to pursue125Nature’s free charms, and vie for sylvan fame:A fair ambition; void of strife or guile,Or jealousy, or pain to be outdone.Who plans th’ enchanted garden, who directsThe visto best, and best conducts the stream;130Whose groves the fastest thicken and ascend;Whom first the welcome spring salutes; who shewsThe earliest bloom, the sweetest proudest charms,Of Flora; who best gives Pomona’s juiceTo match the sprightly genius of Champain.135Thrice happy days! in rural business past.Blest winter nights! when, as the genial fireChears the wide hall, his cordial familyWith soft domestic arts the hours beguile,And pleasing talk that starts no timerous fame,140With witless wantoness to hunt it down:Or thro’ the fairy-land of tale or songDelighted wander, in fictitious fatesEngag’d, and all that strikes humanity;Till lost in fable, they the stealing hour145Of timely rest forget. Sometimes, at eve,His neighbours lift the latch, and bless unbidHis festal roof; while, o’er the light repast,And sprightly cups, they mix in social joy;And, thro’ the maze of conversation, trace150Whate’er amuses or improves the mind.Sometimes at eve (for I delight to tasteThe native zest and flavour of the fruit,Where sense grows wild, and takes of no manure)The decent, honest, chearful husbandman155Should drown his labours in my friendly bowl;And at my table find himself at home.Whate’er you study, in whate’er you sweat,Indulge your taste. Some love the manly foils;The tennis some; and some the graceful dance.160Others, more hardy, range the purple heath,Or naked stubble; where from field to fieldThe sounding coveys urge their labouring flight;Eager amid the rising cloud to pourThe gun’s unerring thunder: And there are165Whom still the meed6of the green archer charms.He chuses best, whose labour entertainsHis vacant fancy most: The toil you hateFatigues you soon, and scarce improves your limbs.As beauty still has blemish; and the mind170The most accomplish’d its imperfect side;Few bodies are there of that happy mouldBut some one part is weaker than the rest:The legs, perhaps, or arms refuse their load,Or the chest labours. These assiduously,175But gently, in their proper arts employ’d,Acquire a vigor and elastic springTo which they were not born. But weaker partsAbhor fatigue and violent discipline.Begin with gentle toils; and, as your nerves180Grow firm, to hardier by just steps aspire.The prudent, even in every moderate walk,At first but saunter; and by slow degreesIncrease their pace. This doctrine of the wiseWell knows the master of the flying steed.185First from the goal the manag’d coursers playOn bended reins; as yet the skilful youthRepress their foamy pride; but every breathThe race grows warmer, and the tempest swells;Till all the fiery mettle has its way,190And the thick thunder hurries o’er the plain.When all at once from indolence to toilYou spring, the fibres by the hasty shockAre tir’d and crack’d, before their unctuous coats,Compress’d, can pour the lubricating balm.195Besides, collected in the passive veins,The purple mass a sudden torrent rolls,O’erpowers the heart, and deluges the lungsWith dangerous inundation: Oft the sourceOf fatal woes; a cough that foams with blood,200Asthma, and feller Peripneumonie,7Or the slow minings of the hectic fire.Th’ athletic fool, to whom what heav’n deny’dOf soul is well compensated in limbs,Oft from his rage, or brainless frolic, feels205His vegetation and brute force decay.The men of better clay and finer mouldKnow nature, feel the human dignity;And scorn to vie with oxen or with apes.Pursued prolixly, even the gentlest toil210Is waste of health: Repose by small fatigueIs earn’d; and (where your habit is not proneTo thaw) by the first moisture of the brows.The fine and subtle spirits cost too muchTo be profus’d, too much the roscid balm.215But when the hard varieties of lifeYou toil to learn; or try the dusty chace,Or the warm deeds of some important day:Hot from the field, indulge not yet your limbsIn wish’d repose, nor court the fanning gale,220Nor taste the spring. O! by the sacred tearsOf widows, orphans, mothers, sisters, sires,Forbear! No other pestilence has drivenSuch myriads o’er th’ irremeable deep.Why this so fatal, the sagacious muse225Thro’ nature’s cunning labyrinths could trace:But there are secrets which who knows not now,Must, ere he reach them, climb the heapy AlpsOf science; and devote seven years to toil.Besides, I would not stun your patient ears230With what it little boots you to attain.He knows enough, the mariner, who knowsWhere lurk the shelves, and where the whirlpools boil,What signs portend the storm: To subtler mindsHe leaves to scan, from what mysterious cause235Charybdis rages in th’ Ionian wave;Whence those impetuous currents in the main,Which neither oar nor sail can stem; and whyThe roughning deep expects the storm, as sureAs red Orion mounts the shrowded heaven.240In ancient times, when Rome with Athens viedFor polish’d luxury and useful arts;All hot and reeking from th’ Olympic strife,And warm Palestra, in the tepid bathTh’ athletic youth relax’d their weary’d limbs.245Soft oils bedew’d them, with the grateful pow’rsOf Nard and Cassia fraught, to sooth and healThe cherish’d nerves. Our less voluptuous climeNot much invites us to such arts as these.’Tis not for those, whom gelid skies embrace,250And chilling fogs; whose perspiration feelsSuch frequent bars from Eurus and the North;’Tis not for those to cultivate a skinToo soft; or teach the recremental fumeToo fast to crowd thro’ such precarious ways.255For thro’ the small arterial mouths, that pierceIn endless millions the close-woven skin,The baser fluids in a constant streamEscape, and viewless melt into the winds.While this eternal, this most copious waste260Of blood degenerate into vapid brine,Maintains its wonted measure; all the powersOf health befriend you, all the wheels of lifeWith ease and pleasure move: But this restrain’dOr more or less, so more or less you feel265The functions labour. From this fatal sourceWhat woes descend is never to be sung.To take their numbers, were to count the sandsThat ride in whirlwind the parch’d Lybian air;Or waves that, when the blustering North embroils270The Baltic, thunder on the German shore.Subject not then, by soft emollient arts,This grand expence, on which your fates depend,To every caprice of the sky; nor thwartThe genius of your clime: For from the blood275Least fickle rise the recremental steams,And least obnoxious to the styptic air,Which breathe thro’ straiter and more callous pores.The temper’d Scythian hence, half-naked treadsHis boundless snows, nor rues th’ inclement heaven;280And hence our painted ancestors defiedThe East; nor curs’d, like us, their fickle sky.The body moulded by the clime, induresTh’ Equator heats, or Hyperborean frost:Except by habits foreign to its turn,285Unwise, you counteract its forming pow’r.Rude at the first, the winter shocks you lessBy long acquaintance: Study then your sky,Form to its manners your obsequious frame,And learn to suffer what you cannot shun.290Against the rigors of a damp cold heav’nTo fortify their bodies, some frequentThe gelid cistern; and, where nought forbids,I praise their dauntless heart. A frame so steel’dDreads not the cough, nor those ungenial blasts,295That breathe the Tertian or fell Rheumatism;The nerves so temper’d never quit their tone,No chronic languors haunt such hardy breasts.But all things have their bounds: And he who makesBy daily use the kindest regimen300Essential to his health, should never mixWith human kind, nor art nor trade pursue.He not the safe vicissitudes of lifeWithout some shock endures; ill-fitted heTo want the known, or bear unusual things.305Besides, the powerful remedies of pain(Since pain in spite of all our care will come)Should never with your prosperous days of healthGrow too familiar: For by frequent useThe strongest medicines lose their healing power,310And even the surest poisons theirs to kill.Let those who from the frozen Arctos reachParch’d Mauritania, or the sultry West,Or the wide flood that waters Indostan,Plunge thrice a day, and in the tepid wave315Untwist their stubborn pores; that full and freeTh’ evaporation thro’ the softned skinMay bear proportion to the swelling blood.So shall they ’scape the fever’s rapid flames;So feel untainted the hot breath of hell.320With us, the man of no complaint demandsThe warm ablution, just enough to clearThe sluices of the skin, enough to keepThe body sacred from indecent soil.Still to be pure, even did it not conduce325(As much it does) to health, were greatly worthYour daily pains. ’Tis this adorns the rich;The want of this is poverty’s worst woe:With this external virtue, age maintainsA decent grace; without it, youth and charms330Are loathsome. This the skilful virgin knows:So doubtless do your wives. For married sires,As well as lovers, still pretend to taste;Nor is it less (all prudent wives can tell)To lose a husband’s, than a lover’s heart.335But now the hours and seasons when to toil,From foreign themes recall my wandering song.Some labour fasting, or but slightly fed,To lull the grinding stomach’s hungry rage:Where nature feeds too corpulent a frame340’Tis wisely done. For while the thirsty veins,Impatient of lean penury, devourThe treasur’d oil, then is the happiest timeTo shake the lazy balsam from its cells.Now while the stomach from the full repast345Subsides; but ere returning hunger gnaws;Ye leaner habits give an hour to toil:And ye whom no luxuriancy of growthOppresses yet, or threatens to oppress.But from the recent meal no labours please,350Of limbs or mind. For now the cordial powersClaim all the wandering spirits to a workOf strong and subtle toil, and great event;A work of time: and you may rue the dayYou hurried, with ill-seasoned exercise,355A half concocted chyle into the blood.The body overcharg’d with unctuous phlegmMuch toil demands: The lean elastic less.While winter chills the blood, and binds the veins,No labours are too hard: By those you ’scape360The slow diseases of the torpid year;Endless to name; to one of which alone,To that which tears the nerves, the toil of slavesIs pleasure: Oh! from such inhuman painsMay all be free who merit not the wheel!365But from the burning Lion when the sunPours down his sultry wrath; now while the bloodToo much already maddens in the veins,And all the finer fluids thro’ the skinExplore their flight; me, near the cool cascade370Reclin’d, or sauntring in the lofty grove,No needless slight occasion should engageTo pant and sweat beneath the fiery noon.Now the fresh morn alone and mellow eveTo shady walks and active rural sports375Invite. But, while the chilling dews descend,May nothing tempt you to the cold embraceOf humid skies: Tho’ ’tis no vulgar joyTo trace the horrors of the solemn wood,While the soft evening saddens into night:380Tho’ the sweet poet of the vernal grovesMelts all the night in strains of amorous woe.The shades descend, and midnight o’er the worldExpands her sable wings. Great nature droopsThro’ all her works. Now happy he whose toil385Has o’er his languid powerless limbs diffus’dA pleasing lassitude: He not in vainInvokes the gentle deity of dreams.His powers the most voluptuously dissolveIn soft repose: On him the balmy dews390Of sleep with double nutriment descend.But would you sweetly waste the blank of nightIn deep oblivion; or on fancy’s wingsVisit the paradise of happy dreams,And waken chearful as the lively morn;395Oppress not nature sinking down to restWith feasts too late, too solid, or too full.But be the first concoction half-matur’d,Ere you to mighty indolence resignYour passive faculties. He from the toils400And troubles of the day to heavier toilRetires, whom trembling from the tower that rocksAmid the clouds, or Calpe’s hideous height,The busy dæmons hurl, or in the mainO’erwhelm, or bury struggling under ground.405Not all a monarch’s luxury the woesCan counterpoise, of that most wretched man,Whose nights are shaken with the frantic fitsOf wild Orestes; whose delirious brain,Stung by the furies, works with poisoned thought!410While pale and monstrous painting shocks the soul;And mangled consciousness bemoans itselfFor ever torn; and chaos floating round.What dreams presage, what dangers these or thosePortend to sanity, tho’ prudent seers415Reveal’d of old, and men of deathless fame;We would not to the superstitious mindSuggest new throbs, new vanities of fear.’Tis ours to teach you from the peaceful nightTo banish omens, and all restless woes.420In study some protract the silent hours,Which others consecrate to mirth and wine;And sleep till noon, and hardly live till night.But surely this redeems not from the shadesOne hour of life. Nor does it nought avail425What season you to drowsy Morpheus giveOf th’ ever-varying circle of the day;Or whether, thro’ the tedious winter gloom,You tempt the midnight or the morning damps.The body, fresh and vigorous from repose,430Defies the early fogs: but, by the toilsOf wakeful day, exhausted and unstrung,Weakly resists the night’s unwholsome breath.The grand discharge, th’ effusion of the skin,Slowly impair’d, the languid maladies435Creep on, and thro’ the sickning functions steal.So, when the chilling East invades the spring,The delicate Narcissus pines awayIn hectic languor; and a slow diseaseTaints all the family of flowers, condemn’d440To cruel heav’ns. But why, already proneTo fade, should beauty cherish its own bane?O shame! O pity! nipt with pale Quadrille,And midnight cares, the bloom of Albion dies!By toil subdu’d, the Warrior and the Hind445Sleep fast and deep; their active functions soonWith generous streams the subtle tubes supply,And soon the tonick irritable nervesFeel the fresh impulse, and awake the soul.The sons of indolence, with long repose,450Grow torpid; and, with slowest Lethe drunk,Feebly and lingringly return to life,Blunt every sense and powerless every limb.Ye, prone to sleep (whom sleeping most annoys)On the hard mattrass or elastic couch455Extend your limbs, and wean yourselves from sloth;Nor grudge the lean projector, of dry brainAnd springy nerves, the blandishments of down.Nor envy while the buried bacchanalExhales his surfeit in prolixer dreams.460He without riot, in the balmy feastOf life, the wants of nature has suppliedWho rises cool, serene, and full of soul.But pliant nature more or less demands,As custom forms her; and all sudden change465She hates of habit, even from bad to good.If faults in life, or new emergencies,From habits urge you by long time confirm’d,Slow may the change arrive, and stage by stage;Slow as the shadow o’er the dial moves,470Slow as the stealing progress of the year.Observe the circling year. How unperceiv’dHer seasons change! Behold! by slow degrees,Stern Winter tam’d into a ruder spring;The ripen’d Spring a milder summer glows;475Departing Summer sheds Pomona’s store;And aged Autumn brews the winter-storm.Slow as they come, these changes come not voidOf mortal shocks: The cold and torrid reigns,The two great periods of th’ important year,480Are in their first approaches seldom safe:Funereal autumn all the sickly dread,And the black fates deform the lovely spring.He well advis’d, who taught our wiser siresEarly to borrow Muscovy’s warm spoils,485Ere the first frost has touch’d the tender blade;And late resign them, tho’ the wanton springShould deck her charms with all her sister’s rays.For while the effluence of the skin maintainsIts native measure, the pleuritic Spring490Glides harmless by; and Autumn, sick to deathWith sallow Quartans, no contagion breathes.I in prophetic numbers could unfoldThe omens of the year: what seasons teemWith what diseases; what the humid South495Prepares, and what the Dæmon of the East:But you perhaps refuse the tedious song.Besides, whatever plagues in heat, or cold,Or drought, or moisture dwell, they hurt not you,Skill’d to correct the vices of the sky,500And taught already how to each extreamTo bend your life. But should the public baneInfect you, or some trespass of your own,Or flaw of nature hint mortality:Soon as a not unpleasing horror glides505Along the spine, thro’ all your torpid limbs;When first: the head throbs, or the stomach feelsA sickly load, a weary pain the loins;Be Celsus call’d: The fates come rushing on;The rapid fates admit of no delay.510While wilful you, and fatally secure,Expect to morrow’s more auspicious sun,The growing pest, whose infancy was weakAnd easy vanquish’d, with triumphant swayO’erpow’rs your life. For want of timely care515Millions have died of medicable wounds.Ah! in what perils is vain life engag’d!What slight neglects, what trivial faults destroyThe hardiest frame! Of indolence, of toil,We die; of want, of superfluity.520The all-surrounding heaven, the vital air,Is big with death. And, tho’ the putrid SouthBe shut; tho’ no convulsive agonyShake, from the deep foundations of the world,Th’ imprisoned plagues; a secret venom oft525Corrupts the air, the water, and the land.What livid deaths has sad Byzantium seen!How oft has Cairo, with a mother’s woe,Wept o’er her slaughter’d sons, and lonely streets!Even Albion, girt with less malignant skies,530Albion the poison of the Gods has drunk,And felt the sting of monsters all her own.Ere yet the fell Plantagenets had spentTheir ancient rage, at Bosworth’s purple field;While, for which tyrant England should receive,535Her legions in incestuous murders mix’d,And daily horrors; till the Fates were drunkWith kindred blood by kindred hands profus’d:Another plague of more gygantic armArose, a monster never known before540Rear’d from Cocytus its portentuous head.This rapid fury not, like other pests,Pursued a gradual course, but in a dayRush’d as a storm o’er half th’ astonish’d isle,And strew’d with sudden carcasses the land.545First thro’ the shoulders, or whatever partWas seiz’d the first, a fervid vapour sprung.With rash combustion thence, the quivering sparkShot to the heart, and kindled all within;And soon the surface caught the spreading fires.550Thro’ all the yielding pores the melted bloodGush’d out in smoaky sweats; but nought assuag’dThe torrid heat within, nor aught reliev’dThe stomach’s anguish. With incessant toil,Desperate of ease, impatient of their pain,555They toss’d from side to side. In vain the streamRan full and clear, they burnt and thirsted still.The restless arteries with rapid bloodBeat strong and frequent. Thick and pantinglyThe breath was fetch’d, and with huge lab’rings heav’d.560At last a heavy pain oppress’d the head,A wild delirium came; their weeping friendsWere strangers now, and this no home of theirs.Harass’d with toil on toil, the sinking powersLay prostrate and o’erthrown; a ponderous sleep565Wrapt all the senses up: They slept and died.In some a gentle horror crept at firstO’er all the limbs; the sluices of the skinWithheld their moisture, till by art provok’dThe sweats o’erflow’d; but in a clammy tide:570Now free and copious, now restrain’d and slow;Of tinctures various, as the temperatureHad mix’d the blood; and rank with fetid steams:As if the pent-up humors by delayWere grown more fell, more putrid, and malign.575Here lay their hopes (tho’ little hope remain’d)With full effusion of perpetual sweatsTo drive the venom out. And here the fatesWere kind, that long they linger’d not in pain.For who surviv’d the sun’s diurnal race580Rose from the dreary gates of hell redeem’d:Some the sixth hour oppress’d, and some the third.Of many thousands few untainted ’scap’d;Of those infected fewer ’scap’d alive:Of those who liv’d some felt a second blow;585And whom the second spar’d a third destroy’d.Frantic with fear, they sought by flight to shunThe fierce contagion. O’er the mournful landTh’ infected city pour’d her hurrying swarms:Rous’d by the flames that fir’d her seats around,590Th’ infected country rush’d into the town.Some, sad at home, and in the desart some,Abjur’d the fatal commerce of mankind;In vain: where’er they fled the Fates pursued.Others, with hopes more specious, cross’d the main,595To seek protection in far-distant skies;But none they found. It seem’d the general airWas then at enmity with English blood.For, but the race of England, all were safeIn foreign climes; nor did this fury taste600The foreign blood which Albion then contain’d.Where should they fly? The circumambient heavenInvolv’d them still; and every breeze was bane.Where find relief? The salutary artWas mute; and, startled at the new disease,605In fearful whispers hopeless omens gave.To heaven with suppliant rites they sent their pray’rs;Heav’n heard them not. Of every hope depriv’d;Fatigu’d with vain resources; and subduedWith woes resistless and enfeebling fear;610Passive they sunk beneath the weighty blow.Nothing but lamentable sounds was heard,Nor ought was seen but ghastly views of death;Infectious horror ran from face to face,And pale despair. ’Twas all the business then615To tend the sick, and in their turns to die.In heaps they fell: And oft one bed, they say,The sickening, dying, and the dead contain’d.Ye guardian Gods, on whom the Fates dependOf tottering Albion! Ye eternal fires,620That lead thro’ heav’n the wandering year! Ye powers,That o’er th’ incircling elements preside!May nothing worse than what this age has seenArrive! Enough abroad, enough at homeHas Albion bled. Here a distemper’d heaven625Has thin’d her cities; from those lofty cliffsThat awe proud Gaul, to Thule’s wintry reign;While in the West, beyond th’ Atlantic foam,Her bravest sons, keen for the fight, have diedThe death of cowards, and of common men;630Sunk void of wounds, and fall’n without renown.But from these views the weeping Muses turn,And other themes invite my wandering song.

Thro’ various toils th’ adventurous muse has past;

But half the toil, and more than half, remains.

Rude is her theme, and hardly fit for song;

Plain, and of little ornament; and I

But little practis’d in th’ Aonian arts.5

Yet not in vain such labours have we tried,

If ought these lays the fickle health confirm.

To you, ye delicate, I write; for you

I tame my youth to philosophic cares,

And grow still paler by the midnight lamps.10

Not to debilitate with timorous rules

A hardy frame; nor needlessly to brave

Unglorious dangers, proud of mortal strength;

Is all the lesson that in wholsome years

Concerns the strong. His care were ill bestow’d15

Who would with warm effeminacy nurse

The thriving oak, which on the mountain’s brow

Bears all the blasts that sweep the wintry heav’n.

Behold the labourer of the glebe, who toilsIn dust, in rain, in cold and sultry skies:20Save but the grain from mildews and the flood,Nought anxious he what sickly stars ascend.He knows no laws by Esculapius given;He studies none. Yet him nor midnight fogsInfest, nor those envenom’d shafts that fly25When rabid Sirius fires th’ autumnal noon.His habit pure with plain and temperate meals,Robust with labour, and by custom steel’dTo every casualty of varied life;Serene he bears the peevish eastern blast,30And uninfected breaths the mortal South.

Behold the labourer of the glebe, who toils

In dust, in rain, in cold and sultry skies:20

Save but the grain from mildews and the flood,

Nought anxious he what sickly stars ascend.

He knows no laws by Esculapius given;

He studies none. Yet him nor midnight fogs

Infest, nor those envenom’d shafts that fly25

When rabid Sirius fires th’ autumnal noon.

His habit pure with plain and temperate meals,

Robust with labour, and by custom steel’d

To every casualty of varied life;

Serene he bears the peevish eastern blast,30

And uninfected breaths the mortal South.

Such the reward of rude and sober life;Of labour such. By health the peasant’s toilIs well repaid; if exercise were painIndeed, and temperance pain. By arts like these35Laconia nurs’d of old her hardy sons;And Rome’s unconquer’d legions urg’d their way,Unhurt, thro’ every toil in every clime.

Such the reward of rude and sober life;

Of labour such. By health the peasant’s toil

Is well repaid; if exercise were pain

Indeed, and temperance pain. By arts like these35

Laconia nurs’d of old her hardy sons;

And Rome’s unconquer’d legions urg’d their way,

Unhurt, thro’ every toil in every clime.

Toil, and be strong. By toil the flaccid nervesGrow firm, and gain a more compacted tone;40The greener juices are by toil subdu’d,Mellow’d, and subtilis’d; the vapid oldExpell’d, and all the rancor of the blood.Come, my companions, ye who feel the charmsOf nature and the year; come, let us stray45Where chance or fancy leads our roving walk:Come, while the soft voluptuous breezes fanThe fleecy heavens, enwrap the limbs in balm,And shed a charming languor o’er the soul.Nor when bright Winter sows with prickly frost50The vigorous ether, in unmanly warmthIndulge at home; nor even when Eurus’ blastsThis way and that convolve the lab’ring woods.My liberal walks, save when the skies in rainOr fogs relent, no season should confine55Or to the cloister’d gallery or arcade.Go, climb the mountain; from th’ etherial sourceImbibe the recent gale. The chearful mornBeams o’er the hills; go, mount th’ exulting steed,Already, see, the deep-mouth’d beagles catch60The tainted mazes; and, on eager sportIntent, with emulous impatience tryEach doubtful track. Or, if a nobler preyDelight you more, go chase the desperate deer;And thro’ its deepest solitudes awake65The vocal forest with the jovial horn.

Toil, and be strong. By toil the flaccid nerves

Grow firm, and gain a more compacted tone;40

The greener juices are by toil subdu’d,

Mellow’d, and subtilis’d; the vapid old

Expell’d, and all the rancor of the blood.

Come, my companions, ye who feel the charms

Of nature and the year; come, let us stray45

Where chance or fancy leads our roving walk:

Come, while the soft voluptuous breezes fan

The fleecy heavens, enwrap the limbs in balm,

And shed a charming languor o’er the soul.

Nor when bright Winter sows with prickly frost50

The vigorous ether, in unmanly warmth

Indulge at home; nor even when Eurus’ blasts

This way and that convolve the lab’ring woods.

My liberal walks, save when the skies in rain

Or fogs relent, no season should confine55

Or to the cloister’d gallery or arcade.

Go, climb the mountain; from th’ etherial source

Imbibe the recent gale. The chearful morn

Beams o’er the hills; go, mount th’ exulting steed,

Already, see, the deep-mouth’d beagles catch60

The tainted mazes; and, on eager sport

Intent, with emulous impatience try

Each doubtful track. Or, if a nobler prey

Delight you more, go chase the desperate deer;

And thro’ its deepest solitudes awake65

The vocal forest with the jovial horn.

But if the breathless chase o’er hill and daleExceed your strength; a sport of less fatigue,Not less delightful, the prolific streamAffords. The chrystal rivulet, that o’er70A stony channel rolls its rapid maze,Swarms with the silver fry. Such, thro’ the boundsOf pastoral Stafford, runs the brawling Trent;Such Eden, sprung from Cumbrian mountains; suchThe Esk, o’erhung with woods; and such the stream75On whole Arcadian banks I first drew air,Liddal; till now, except in Doric laysTun’d to her murmurs by her love-sick swains,Unknown in song: Tho’ not a purer stream,Thro’ meads more flow’ry, or more romantic groves,80Rolls toward the western main. Hail sacred flood!May still thy hospitable swains be blestIn rural innocence; thy mountains stillTeem with the fleecy race; thy tuneful woodsFor ever flourish; and thy vales look gay85With painted meadows, and the golden grain!Oft, with thy blooming sons, when life was new,Sportive and petulant, and charm’d with toys,In thy transparent eddies have I lav’d:Oft trac’d with patient steps thy fairy banks,90With the well-imitated fly to hookThe eager trout, and with the slender lineAnd yielding rod sollicite to the shoreThe struggling panting prey; while vernal cloudsAnd tepid gales obscur’d the ruffled pool,95And from the deeps call’d forth the wanton swarms.

But if the breathless chase o’er hill and dale

Exceed your strength; a sport of less fatigue,

Not less delightful, the prolific stream

Affords. The chrystal rivulet, that o’er70

A stony channel rolls its rapid maze,

Swarms with the silver fry. Such, thro’ the bounds

Of pastoral Stafford, runs the brawling Trent;

Such Eden, sprung from Cumbrian mountains; such

The Esk, o’erhung with woods; and such the stream75

On whole Arcadian banks I first drew air,

Liddal; till now, except in Doric lays

Tun’d to her murmurs by her love-sick swains,

Unknown in song: Tho’ not a purer stream,

Thro’ meads more flow’ry, or more romantic groves,80

Rolls toward the western main. Hail sacred flood!

May still thy hospitable swains be blest

In rural innocence; thy mountains still

Teem with the fleecy race; thy tuneful woods

For ever flourish; and thy vales look gay85

With painted meadows, and the golden grain!

Oft, with thy blooming sons, when life was new,

Sportive and petulant, and charm’d with toys,

In thy transparent eddies have I lav’d:

Oft trac’d with patient steps thy fairy banks,90

With the well-imitated fly to hook

The eager trout, and with the slender line

And yielding rod sollicite to the shore

The struggling panting prey; while vernal clouds

And tepid gales obscur’d the ruffled pool,95

And from the deeps call’d forth the wanton swarms.

Form’d on the Samian school, or those of Ind,There are who think these pastimes scarce humane.Yet in my mind (and not relentless I)His life is pure that wears no fouler stains.100But if thro’ genuine tenderness of heart,Or secret want of relish for the game,You shun the glories of the chace, nor careTo haunt the peopled stream; the garden yieldsA soft amusement, an humane delight.105To raise th’ insipid nature of the ground;Or tame its savage genius to the graceOf careless sweet rusticity, that seemsThe amiable result of happy chance,Is to create; and gives a god-like joy,110Which every year improves. Nor thou disdainTo check the lawless riot of the trees,To plant the grove, or turn the barren mould.O happy he! whom, when his years decline,(His fortune and his fame by worthy means115Attain’d, and equal to his moderate mind;His life approv’d by all the wise and good,Even envied by the vain) the peaceful grovesOf Epicurus, from this stormy world,Receive to rest; of all ungrateful cares120Absolv’d, and sacred from the selfish crowd.Happiest of men! if the same soil invitesA chosen few, companions of his youth,Once fellow-rakes perhaps, now rural friends;With whom in easy commerce to pursue125Nature’s free charms, and vie for sylvan fame:A fair ambition; void of strife or guile,Or jealousy, or pain to be outdone.Who plans th’ enchanted garden, who directsThe visto best, and best conducts the stream;130Whose groves the fastest thicken and ascend;Whom first the welcome spring salutes; who shewsThe earliest bloom, the sweetest proudest charms,Of Flora; who best gives Pomona’s juiceTo match the sprightly genius of Champain.135Thrice happy days! in rural business past.Blest winter nights! when, as the genial fireChears the wide hall, his cordial familyWith soft domestic arts the hours beguile,And pleasing talk that starts no timerous fame,140With witless wantoness to hunt it down:Or thro’ the fairy-land of tale or songDelighted wander, in fictitious fatesEngag’d, and all that strikes humanity;Till lost in fable, they the stealing hour145Of timely rest forget. Sometimes, at eve,His neighbours lift the latch, and bless unbidHis festal roof; while, o’er the light repast,And sprightly cups, they mix in social joy;And, thro’ the maze of conversation, trace150Whate’er amuses or improves the mind.Sometimes at eve (for I delight to tasteThe native zest and flavour of the fruit,Where sense grows wild, and takes of no manure)The decent, honest, chearful husbandman155Should drown his labours in my friendly bowl;And at my table find himself at home.

Form’d on the Samian school, or those of Ind,

There are who think these pastimes scarce humane.

Yet in my mind (and not relentless I)

His life is pure that wears no fouler stains.100

But if thro’ genuine tenderness of heart,

Or secret want of relish for the game,

You shun the glories of the chace, nor care

To haunt the peopled stream; the garden yields

A soft amusement, an humane delight.105

To raise th’ insipid nature of the ground;

Or tame its savage genius to the grace

Of careless sweet rusticity, that seems

The amiable result of happy chance,

Is to create; and gives a god-like joy,110

Which every year improves. Nor thou disdain

To check the lawless riot of the trees,

To plant the grove, or turn the barren mould.

O happy he! whom, when his years decline,

(His fortune and his fame by worthy means115

Attain’d, and equal to his moderate mind;

His life approv’d by all the wise and good,

Even envied by the vain) the peaceful groves

Of Epicurus, from this stormy world,

Receive to rest; of all ungrateful cares120

Absolv’d, and sacred from the selfish crowd.

Happiest of men! if the same soil invites

A chosen few, companions of his youth,

Once fellow-rakes perhaps, now rural friends;

With whom in easy commerce to pursue125

Nature’s free charms, and vie for sylvan fame:

A fair ambition; void of strife or guile,

Or jealousy, or pain to be outdone.

Who plans th’ enchanted garden, who directs

The visto best, and best conducts the stream;130

Whose groves the fastest thicken and ascend;

Whom first the welcome spring salutes; who shews

The earliest bloom, the sweetest proudest charms,

Of Flora; who best gives Pomona’s juice

To match the sprightly genius of Champain.135

Thrice happy days! in rural business past.

Blest winter nights! when, as the genial fire

Chears the wide hall, his cordial family

With soft domestic arts the hours beguile,

And pleasing talk that starts no timerous fame,140

With witless wantoness to hunt it down:

Or thro’ the fairy-land of tale or song

Delighted wander, in fictitious fates

Engag’d, and all that strikes humanity;

Till lost in fable, they the stealing hour145

Of timely rest forget. Sometimes, at eve,

His neighbours lift the latch, and bless unbid

His festal roof; while, o’er the light repast,

And sprightly cups, they mix in social joy;

And, thro’ the maze of conversation, trace150

Whate’er amuses or improves the mind.

Sometimes at eve (for I delight to taste

The native zest and flavour of the fruit,

Where sense grows wild, and takes of no manure)

The decent, honest, chearful husbandman155

Should drown his labours in my friendly bowl;

And at my table find himself at home.

Whate’er you study, in whate’er you sweat,Indulge your taste. Some love the manly foils;The tennis some; and some the graceful dance.160Others, more hardy, range the purple heath,Or naked stubble; where from field to fieldThe sounding coveys urge their labouring flight;Eager amid the rising cloud to pourThe gun’s unerring thunder: And there are165Whom still the meed6of the green archer charms.He chuses best, whose labour entertainsHis vacant fancy most: The toil you hateFatigues you soon, and scarce improves your limbs.

Whate’er you study, in whate’er you sweat,

Indulge your taste. Some love the manly foils;

The tennis some; and some the graceful dance.160

Others, more hardy, range the purple heath,

Or naked stubble; where from field to field

The sounding coveys urge their labouring flight;

Eager amid the rising cloud to pour

The gun’s unerring thunder: And there are165

Whom still the meed6of the green archer charms.

He chuses best, whose labour entertains

His vacant fancy most: The toil you hate

Fatigues you soon, and scarce improves your limbs.

As beauty still has blemish; and the mind170The most accomplish’d its imperfect side;Few bodies are there of that happy mouldBut some one part is weaker than the rest:The legs, perhaps, or arms refuse their load,Or the chest labours. These assiduously,175But gently, in their proper arts employ’d,Acquire a vigor and elastic springTo which they were not born. But weaker partsAbhor fatigue and violent discipline.

As beauty still has blemish; and the mind170

The most accomplish’d its imperfect side;

Few bodies are there of that happy mould

But some one part is weaker than the rest:

The legs, perhaps, or arms refuse their load,

Or the chest labours. These assiduously,175

But gently, in their proper arts employ’d,

Acquire a vigor and elastic spring

To which they were not born. But weaker parts

Abhor fatigue and violent discipline.

Begin with gentle toils; and, as your nerves180Grow firm, to hardier by just steps aspire.The prudent, even in every moderate walk,At first but saunter; and by slow degreesIncrease their pace. This doctrine of the wiseWell knows the master of the flying steed.185First from the goal the manag’d coursers playOn bended reins; as yet the skilful youthRepress their foamy pride; but every breathThe race grows warmer, and the tempest swells;Till all the fiery mettle has its way,190And the thick thunder hurries o’er the plain.When all at once from indolence to toilYou spring, the fibres by the hasty shockAre tir’d and crack’d, before their unctuous coats,Compress’d, can pour the lubricating balm.195Besides, collected in the passive veins,The purple mass a sudden torrent rolls,O’erpowers the heart, and deluges the lungsWith dangerous inundation: Oft the sourceOf fatal woes; a cough that foams with blood,200Asthma, and feller Peripneumonie,7Or the slow minings of the hectic fire.

Begin with gentle toils; and, as your nerves180

Grow firm, to hardier by just steps aspire.

The prudent, even in every moderate walk,

At first but saunter; and by slow degrees

Increase their pace. This doctrine of the wise

Well knows the master of the flying steed.185

First from the goal the manag’d coursers play

On bended reins; as yet the skilful youth

Repress their foamy pride; but every breath

The race grows warmer, and the tempest swells;

Till all the fiery mettle has its way,190

And the thick thunder hurries o’er the plain.

When all at once from indolence to toil

You spring, the fibres by the hasty shock

Are tir’d and crack’d, before their unctuous coats,

Compress’d, can pour the lubricating balm.195

Besides, collected in the passive veins,

The purple mass a sudden torrent rolls,

O’erpowers the heart, and deluges the lungs

With dangerous inundation: Oft the source

Of fatal woes; a cough that foams with blood,200

Asthma, and feller Peripneumonie,7

Or the slow minings of the hectic fire.

Th’ athletic fool, to whom what heav’n deny’dOf soul is well compensated in limbs,Oft from his rage, or brainless frolic, feels205His vegetation and brute force decay.The men of better clay and finer mouldKnow nature, feel the human dignity;And scorn to vie with oxen or with apes.Pursued prolixly, even the gentlest toil210Is waste of health: Repose by small fatigueIs earn’d; and (where your habit is not proneTo thaw) by the first moisture of the brows.The fine and subtle spirits cost too muchTo be profus’d, too much the roscid balm.215But when the hard varieties of lifeYou toil to learn; or try the dusty chace,Or the warm deeds of some important day:Hot from the field, indulge not yet your limbsIn wish’d repose, nor court the fanning gale,220Nor taste the spring. O! by the sacred tearsOf widows, orphans, mothers, sisters, sires,Forbear! No other pestilence has drivenSuch myriads o’er th’ irremeable deep.Why this so fatal, the sagacious muse225Thro’ nature’s cunning labyrinths could trace:But there are secrets which who knows not now,Must, ere he reach them, climb the heapy AlpsOf science; and devote seven years to toil.Besides, I would not stun your patient ears230With what it little boots you to attain.He knows enough, the mariner, who knowsWhere lurk the shelves, and where the whirlpools boil,What signs portend the storm: To subtler mindsHe leaves to scan, from what mysterious cause235Charybdis rages in th’ Ionian wave;Whence those impetuous currents in the main,Which neither oar nor sail can stem; and whyThe roughning deep expects the storm, as sureAs red Orion mounts the shrowded heaven.240

Th’ athletic fool, to whom what heav’n deny’d

Of soul is well compensated in limbs,

Oft from his rage, or brainless frolic, feels205

His vegetation and brute force decay.

The men of better clay and finer mould

Know nature, feel the human dignity;

And scorn to vie with oxen or with apes.

Pursued prolixly, even the gentlest toil210

Is waste of health: Repose by small fatigue

Is earn’d; and (where your habit is not prone

To thaw) by the first moisture of the brows.

The fine and subtle spirits cost too much

To be profus’d, too much the roscid balm.215

But when the hard varieties of life

You toil to learn; or try the dusty chace,

Or the warm deeds of some important day:

Hot from the field, indulge not yet your limbs

In wish’d repose, nor court the fanning gale,220

Nor taste the spring. O! by the sacred tears

Of widows, orphans, mothers, sisters, sires,

Forbear! No other pestilence has driven

Such myriads o’er th’ irremeable deep.

Why this so fatal, the sagacious muse225

Thro’ nature’s cunning labyrinths could trace:

But there are secrets which who knows not now,

Must, ere he reach them, climb the heapy Alps

Of science; and devote seven years to toil.

Besides, I would not stun your patient ears230

With what it little boots you to attain.

He knows enough, the mariner, who knows

Where lurk the shelves, and where the whirlpools boil,

What signs portend the storm: To subtler minds

He leaves to scan, from what mysterious cause235

Charybdis rages in th’ Ionian wave;

Whence those impetuous currents in the main,

Which neither oar nor sail can stem; and why

The roughning deep expects the storm, as sure

As red Orion mounts the shrowded heaven.240

In ancient times, when Rome with Athens viedFor polish’d luxury and useful arts;All hot and reeking from th’ Olympic strife,And warm Palestra, in the tepid bathTh’ athletic youth relax’d their weary’d limbs.245Soft oils bedew’d them, with the grateful pow’rsOf Nard and Cassia fraught, to sooth and healThe cherish’d nerves. Our less voluptuous climeNot much invites us to such arts as these.’Tis not for those, whom gelid skies embrace,250And chilling fogs; whose perspiration feelsSuch frequent bars from Eurus and the North;’Tis not for those to cultivate a skinToo soft; or teach the recremental fumeToo fast to crowd thro’ such precarious ways.255For thro’ the small arterial mouths, that pierceIn endless millions the close-woven skin,The baser fluids in a constant streamEscape, and viewless melt into the winds.While this eternal, this most copious waste260Of blood degenerate into vapid brine,Maintains its wonted measure; all the powersOf health befriend you, all the wheels of lifeWith ease and pleasure move: But this restrain’dOr more or less, so more or less you feel265The functions labour. From this fatal sourceWhat woes descend is never to be sung.To take their numbers, were to count the sandsThat ride in whirlwind the parch’d Lybian air;Or waves that, when the blustering North embroils270The Baltic, thunder on the German shore.Subject not then, by soft emollient arts,This grand expence, on which your fates depend,To every caprice of the sky; nor thwartThe genius of your clime: For from the blood275Least fickle rise the recremental steams,And least obnoxious to the styptic air,Which breathe thro’ straiter and more callous pores.The temper’d Scythian hence, half-naked treadsHis boundless snows, nor rues th’ inclement heaven;280And hence our painted ancestors defiedThe East; nor curs’d, like us, their fickle sky.

In ancient times, when Rome with Athens vied

For polish’d luxury and useful arts;

All hot and reeking from th’ Olympic strife,

And warm Palestra, in the tepid bath

Th’ athletic youth relax’d their weary’d limbs.245

Soft oils bedew’d them, with the grateful pow’rs

Of Nard and Cassia fraught, to sooth and heal

The cherish’d nerves. Our less voluptuous clime

Not much invites us to such arts as these.

’Tis not for those, whom gelid skies embrace,250

And chilling fogs; whose perspiration feels

Such frequent bars from Eurus and the North;

’Tis not for those to cultivate a skin

Too soft; or teach the recremental fume

Too fast to crowd thro’ such precarious ways.255

For thro’ the small arterial mouths, that pierce

In endless millions the close-woven skin,

The baser fluids in a constant stream

Escape, and viewless melt into the winds.

While this eternal, this most copious waste260

Of blood degenerate into vapid brine,

Maintains its wonted measure; all the powers

Of health befriend you, all the wheels of life

With ease and pleasure move: But this restrain’d

Or more or less, so more or less you feel265

The functions labour. From this fatal source

What woes descend is never to be sung.

To take their numbers, were to count the sands

That ride in whirlwind the parch’d Lybian air;

Or waves that, when the blustering North embroils270

The Baltic, thunder on the German shore.

Subject not then, by soft emollient arts,

This grand expence, on which your fates depend,

To every caprice of the sky; nor thwart

The genius of your clime: For from the blood275

Least fickle rise the recremental steams,

And least obnoxious to the styptic air,

Which breathe thro’ straiter and more callous pores.

The temper’d Scythian hence, half-naked treads

His boundless snows, nor rues th’ inclement heaven;280

And hence our painted ancestors defied

The East; nor curs’d, like us, their fickle sky.

The body moulded by the clime, induresTh’ Equator heats, or Hyperborean frost:Except by habits foreign to its turn,285Unwise, you counteract its forming pow’r.Rude at the first, the winter shocks you lessBy long acquaintance: Study then your sky,Form to its manners your obsequious frame,And learn to suffer what you cannot shun.290Against the rigors of a damp cold heav’nTo fortify their bodies, some frequentThe gelid cistern; and, where nought forbids,I praise their dauntless heart. A frame so steel’dDreads not the cough, nor those ungenial blasts,295That breathe the Tertian or fell Rheumatism;The nerves so temper’d never quit their tone,No chronic languors haunt such hardy breasts.But all things have their bounds: And he who makesBy daily use the kindest regimen300Essential to his health, should never mixWith human kind, nor art nor trade pursue.He not the safe vicissitudes of lifeWithout some shock endures; ill-fitted heTo want the known, or bear unusual things.305Besides, the powerful remedies of pain(Since pain in spite of all our care will come)Should never with your prosperous days of healthGrow too familiar: For by frequent useThe strongest medicines lose their healing power,310And even the surest poisons theirs to kill.

The body moulded by the clime, indures

Th’ Equator heats, or Hyperborean frost:

Except by habits foreign to its turn,285

Unwise, you counteract its forming pow’r.

Rude at the first, the winter shocks you less

By long acquaintance: Study then your sky,

Form to its manners your obsequious frame,

And learn to suffer what you cannot shun.290

Against the rigors of a damp cold heav’n

To fortify their bodies, some frequent

The gelid cistern; and, where nought forbids,

I praise their dauntless heart. A frame so steel’d

Dreads not the cough, nor those ungenial blasts,295

That breathe the Tertian or fell Rheumatism;

The nerves so temper’d never quit their tone,

No chronic languors haunt such hardy breasts.

But all things have their bounds: And he who makes

By daily use the kindest regimen300

Essential to his health, should never mix

With human kind, nor art nor trade pursue.

He not the safe vicissitudes of life

Without some shock endures; ill-fitted he

To want the known, or bear unusual things.305

Besides, the powerful remedies of pain

(Since pain in spite of all our care will come)

Should never with your prosperous days of health

Grow too familiar: For by frequent use

The strongest medicines lose their healing power,310

And even the surest poisons theirs to kill.

Let those who from the frozen Arctos reachParch’d Mauritania, or the sultry West,Or the wide flood that waters Indostan,Plunge thrice a day, and in the tepid wave315Untwist their stubborn pores; that full and freeTh’ evaporation thro’ the softned skinMay bear proportion to the swelling blood.So shall they ’scape the fever’s rapid flames;So feel untainted the hot breath of hell.320With us, the man of no complaint demandsThe warm ablution, just enough to clearThe sluices of the skin, enough to keepThe body sacred from indecent soil.Still to be pure, even did it not conduce325(As much it does) to health, were greatly worthYour daily pains. ’Tis this adorns the rich;The want of this is poverty’s worst woe:With this external virtue, age maintainsA decent grace; without it, youth and charms330Are loathsome. This the skilful virgin knows:So doubtless do your wives. For married sires,As well as lovers, still pretend to taste;Nor is it less (all prudent wives can tell)To lose a husband’s, than a lover’s heart.335

Let those who from the frozen Arctos reach

Parch’d Mauritania, or the sultry West,

Or the wide flood that waters Indostan,

Plunge thrice a day, and in the tepid wave315

Untwist their stubborn pores; that full and free

Th’ evaporation thro’ the softned skin

May bear proportion to the swelling blood.

So shall they ’scape the fever’s rapid flames;

So feel untainted the hot breath of hell.320

With us, the man of no complaint demands

The warm ablution, just enough to clear

The sluices of the skin, enough to keep

The body sacred from indecent soil.

Still to be pure, even did it not conduce325

(As much it does) to health, were greatly worth

Your daily pains. ’Tis this adorns the rich;

The want of this is poverty’s worst woe:

With this external virtue, age maintains

A decent grace; without it, youth and charms330

Are loathsome. This the skilful virgin knows:

So doubtless do your wives. For married sires,

As well as lovers, still pretend to taste;

Nor is it less (all prudent wives can tell)

To lose a husband’s, than a lover’s heart.335

But now the hours and seasons when to toil,From foreign themes recall my wandering song.Some labour fasting, or but slightly fed,To lull the grinding stomach’s hungry rage:Where nature feeds too corpulent a frame340’Tis wisely done. For while the thirsty veins,Impatient of lean penury, devourThe treasur’d oil, then is the happiest timeTo shake the lazy balsam from its cells.Now while the stomach from the full repast345Subsides; but ere returning hunger gnaws;Ye leaner habits give an hour to toil:And ye whom no luxuriancy of growthOppresses yet, or threatens to oppress.But from the recent meal no labours please,350Of limbs or mind. For now the cordial powersClaim all the wandering spirits to a workOf strong and subtle toil, and great event;A work of time: and you may rue the dayYou hurried, with ill-seasoned exercise,355A half concocted chyle into the blood.The body overcharg’d with unctuous phlegmMuch toil demands: The lean elastic less.While winter chills the blood, and binds the veins,No labours are too hard: By those you ’scape360The slow diseases of the torpid year;Endless to name; to one of which alone,To that which tears the nerves, the toil of slavesIs pleasure: Oh! from such inhuman painsMay all be free who merit not the wheel!365But from the burning Lion when the sunPours down his sultry wrath; now while the bloodToo much already maddens in the veins,And all the finer fluids thro’ the skinExplore their flight; me, near the cool cascade370Reclin’d, or sauntring in the lofty grove,No needless slight occasion should engageTo pant and sweat beneath the fiery noon.Now the fresh morn alone and mellow eveTo shady walks and active rural sports375Invite. But, while the chilling dews descend,May nothing tempt you to the cold embraceOf humid skies: Tho’ ’tis no vulgar joyTo trace the horrors of the solemn wood,While the soft evening saddens into night:380Tho’ the sweet poet of the vernal grovesMelts all the night in strains of amorous woe.

But now the hours and seasons when to toil,

From foreign themes recall my wandering song.

Some labour fasting, or but slightly fed,

To lull the grinding stomach’s hungry rage:

Where nature feeds too corpulent a frame340

’Tis wisely done. For while the thirsty veins,

Impatient of lean penury, devour

The treasur’d oil, then is the happiest time

To shake the lazy balsam from its cells.

Now while the stomach from the full repast345

Subsides; but ere returning hunger gnaws;

Ye leaner habits give an hour to toil:

And ye whom no luxuriancy of growth

Oppresses yet, or threatens to oppress.

But from the recent meal no labours please,350

Of limbs or mind. For now the cordial powers

Claim all the wandering spirits to a work

Of strong and subtle toil, and great event;

A work of time: and you may rue the day

You hurried, with ill-seasoned exercise,355

A half concocted chyle into the blood.

The body overcharg’d with unctuous phlegm

Much toil demands: The lean elastic less.

While winter chills the blood, and binds the veins,

No labours are too hard: By those you ’scape360

The slow diseases of the torpid year;

Endless to name; to one of which alone,

To that which tears the nerves, the toil of slaves

Is pleasure: Oh! from such inhuman pains

May all be free who merit not the wheel!365

But from the burning Lion when the sun

Pours down his sultry wrath; now while the blood

Too much already maddens in the veins,

And all the finer fluids thro’ the skin

Explore their flight; me, near the cool cascade370

Reclin’d, or sauntring in the lofty grove,

No needless slight occasion should engage

To pant and sweat beneath the fiery noon.

Now the fresh morn alone and mellow eve

To shady walks and active rural sports375

Invite. But, while the chilling dews descend,

May nothing tempt you to the cold embrace

Of humid skies: Tho’ ’tis no vulgar joy

To trace the horrors of the solemn wood,

While the soft evening saddens into night:380

Tho’ the sweet poet of the vernal groves

Melts all the night in strains of amorous woe.

The shades descend, and midnight o’er the worldExpands her sable wings. Great nature droopsThro’ all her works. Now happy he whose toil385Has o’er his languid powerless limbs diffus’dA pleasing lassitude: He not in vainInvokes the gentle deity of dreams.His powers the most voluptuously dissolveIn soft repose: On him the balmy dews390Of sleep with double nutriment descend.But would you sweetly waste the blank of nightIn deep oblivion; or on fancy’s wingsVisit the paradise of happy dreams,And waken chearful as the lively morn;395Oppress not nature sinking down to restWith feasts too late, too solid, or too full.But be the first concoction half-matur’d,Ere you to mighty indolence resignYour passive faculties. He from the toils400And troubles of the day to heavier toilRetires, whom trembling from the tower that rocksAmid the clouds, or Calpe’s hideous height,The busy dæmons hurl, or in the mainO’erwhelm, or bury struggling under ground.405Not all a monarch’s luxury the woesCan counterpoise, of that most wretched man,Whose nights are shaken with the frantic fitsOf wild Orestes; whose delirious brain,Stung by the furies, works with poisoned thought!410While pale and monstrous painting shocks the soul;And mangled consciousness bemoans itselfFor ever torn; and chaos floating round.What dreams presage, what dangers these or thosePortend to sanity, tho’ prudent seers415Reveal’d of old, and men of deathless fame;We would not to the superstitious mindSuggest new throbs, new vanities of fear.’Tis ours to teach you from the peaceful nightTo banish omens, and all restless woes.420

The shades descend, and midnight o’er the world

Expands her sable wings. Great nature droops

Thro’ all her works. Now happy he whose toil385

Has o’er his languid powerless limbs diffus’d

A pleasing lassitude: He not in vain

Invokes the gentle deity of dreams.

His powers the most voluptuously dissolve

In soft repose: On him the balmy dews390

Of sleep with double nutriment descend.

But would you sweetly waste the blank of night

In deep oblivion; or on fancy’s wings

Visit the paradise of happy dreams,

And waken chearful as the lively morn;395

Oppress not nature sinking down to rest

With feasts too late, too solid, or too full.

But be the first concoction half-matur’d,

Ere you to mighty indolence resign

Your passive faculties. He from the toils400

And troubles of the day to heavier toil

Retires, whom trembling from the tower that rocks

Amid the clouds, or Calpe’s hideous height,

The busy dæmons hurl, or in the main

O’erwhelm, or bury struggling under ground.405

Not all a monarch’s luxury the woes

Can counterpoise, of that most wretched man,

Whose nights are shaken with the frantic fits

Of wild Orestes; whose delirious brain,

Stung by the furies, works with poisoned thought!410

While pale and monstrous painting shocks the soul;

And mangled consciousness bemoans itself

For ever torn; and chaos floating round.

What dreams presage, what dangers these or those

Portend to sanity, tho’ prudent seers415

Reveal’d of old, and men of deathless fame;

We would not to the superstitious mind

Suggest new throbs, new vanities of fear.

’Tis ours to teach you from the peaceful night

To banish omens, and all restless woes.420

In study some protract the silent hours,Which others consecrate to mirth and wine;And sleep till noon, and hardly live till night.But surely this redeems not from the shadesOne hour of life. Nor does it nought avail425What season you to drowsy Morpheus giveOf th’ ever-varying circle of the day;Or whether, thro’ the tedious winter gloom,You tempt the midnight or the morning damps.The body, fresh and vigorous from repose,430Defies the early fogs: but, by the toilsOf wakeful day, exhausted and unstrung,Weakly resists the night’s unwholsome breath.The grand discharge, th’ effusion of the skin,Slowly impair’d, the languid maladies435Creep on, and thro’ the sickning functions steal.So, when the chilling East invades the spring,The delicate Narcissus pines awayIn hectic languor; and a slow diseaseTaints all the family of flowers, condemn’d440To cruel heav’ns. But why, already proneTo fade, should beauty cherish its own bane?O shame! O pity! nipt with pale Quadrille,And midnight cares, the bloom of Albion dies!

In study some protract the silent hours,

Which others consecrate to mirth and wine;

And sleep till noon, and hardly live till night.

But surely this redeems not from the shades

One hour of life. Nor does it nought avail425

What season you to drowsy Morpheus give

Of th’ ever-varying circle of the day;

Or whether, thro’ the tedious winter gloom,

You tempt the midnight or the morning damps.

The body, fresh and vigorous from repose,430

Defies the early fogs: but, by the toils

Of wakeful day, exhausted and unstrung,

Weakly resists the night’s unwholsome breath.

The grand discharge, th’ effusion of the skin,

Slowly impair’d, the languid maladies435

Creep on, and thro’ the sickning functions steal.

So, when the chilling East invades the spring,

The delicate Narcissus pines away

In hectic languor; and a slow disease

Taints all the family of flowers, condemn’d440

To cruel heav’ns. But why, already prone

To fade, should beauty cherish its own bane?

O shame! O pity! nipt with pale Quadrille,

And midnight cares, the bloom of Albion dies!

By toil subdu’d, the Warrior and the Hind445Sleep fast and deep; their active functions soonWith generous streams the subtle tubes supply,And soon the tonick irritable nervesFeel the fresh impulse, and awake the soul.The sons of indolence, with long repose,450Grow torpid; and, with slowest Lethe drunk,Feebly and lingringly return to life,Blunt every sense and powerless every limb.Ye, prone to sleep (whom sleeping most annoys)On the hard mattrass or elastic couch455Extend your limbs, and wean yourselves from sloth;Nor grudge the lean projector, of dry brainAnd springy nerves, the blandishments of down.Nor envy while the buried bacchanalExhales his surfeit in prolixer dreams.460

By toil subdu’d, the Warrior and the Hind445

Sleep fast and deep; their active functions soon

With generous streams the subtle tubes supply,

And soon the tonick irritable nerves

Feel the fresh impulse, and awake the soul.

The sons of indolence, with long repose,450

Grow torpid; and, with slowest Lethe drunk,

Feebly and lingringly return to life,

Blunt every sense and powerless every limb.

Ye, prone to sleep (whom sleeping most annoys)

On the hard mattrass or elastic couch455

Extend your limbs, and wean yourselves from sloth;

Nor grudge the lean projector, of dry brain

And springy nerves, the blandishments of down.

Nor envy while the buried bacchanal

Exhales his surfeit in prolixer dreams.460

He without riot, in the balmy feastOf life, the wants of nature has suppliedWho rises cool, serene, and full of soul.But pliant nature more or less demands,As custom forms her; and all sudden change465She hates of habit, even from bad to good.If faults in life, or new emergencies,From habits urge you by long time confirm’d,Slow may the change arrive, and stage by stage;Slow as the shadow o’er the dial moves,470Slow as the stealing progress of the year.

He without riot, in the balmy feast

Of life, the wants of nature has supplied

Who rises cool, serene, and full of soul.

But pliant nature more or less demands,

As custom forms her; and all sudden change465

She hates of habit, even from bad to good.

If faults in life, or new emergencies,

From habits urge you by long time confirm’d,

Slow may the change arrive, and stage by stage;

Slow as the shadow o’er the dial moves,470

Slow as the stealing progress of the year.

Observe the circling year. How unperceiv’dHer seasons change! Behold! by slow degrees,Stern Winter tam’d into a ruder spring;The ripen’d Spring a milder summer glows;475Departing Summer sheds Pomona’s store;And aged Autumn brews the winter-storm.Slow as they come, these changes come not voidOf mortal shocks: The cold and torrid reigns,The two great periods of th’ important year,480Are in their first approaches seldom safe:Funereal autumn all the sickly dread,And the black fates deform the lovely spring.He well advis’d, who taught our wiser siresEarly to borrow Muscovy’s warm spoils,485Ere the first frost has touch’d the tender blade;And late resign them, tho’ the wanton springShould deck her charms with all her sister’s rays.For while the effluence of the skin maintainsIts native measure, the pleuritic Spring490Glides harmless by; and Autumn, sick to deathWith sallow Quartans, no contagion breathes.

Observe the circling year. How unperceiv’d

Her seasons change! Behold! by slow degrees,

Stern Winter tam’d into a ruder spring;

The ripen’d Spring a milder summer glows;475

Departing Summer sheds Pomona’s store;

And aged Autumn brews the winter-storm.

Slow as they come, these changes come not void

Of mortal shocks: The cold and torrid reigns,

The two great periods of th’ important year,480

Are in their first approaches seldom safe:

Funereal autumn all the sickly dread,

And the black fates deform the lovely spring.

He well advis’d, who taught our wiser sires

Early to borrow Muscovy’s warm spoils,485

Ere the first frost has touch’d the tender blade;

And late resign them, tho’ the wanton spring

Should deck her charms with all her sister’s rays.

For while the effluence of the skin maintains

Its native measure, the pleuritic Spring490

Glides harmless by; and Autumn, sick to death

With sallow Quartans, no contagion breathes.

I in prophetic numbers could unfoldThe omens of the year: what seasons teemWith what diseases; what the humid South495Prepares, and what the Dæmon of the East:But you perhaps refuse the tedious song.Besides, whatever plagues in heat, or cold,Or drought, or moisture dwell, they hurt not you,Skill’d to correct the vices of the sky,500And taught already how to each extreamTo bend your life. But should the public baneInfect you, or some trespass of your own,Or flaw of nature hint mortality:Soon as a not unpleasing horror glides505Along the spine, thro’ all your torpid limbs;When first: the head throbs, or the stomach feelsA sickly load, a weary pain the loins;Be Celsus call’d: The fates come rushing on;The rapid fates admit of no delay.510While wilful you, and fatally secure,Expect to morrow’s more auspicious sun,The growing pest, whose infancy was weakAnd easy vanquish’d, with triumphant swayO’erpow’rs your life. For want of timely care515Millions have died of medicable wounds.

I in prophetic numbers could unfold

The omens of the year: what seasons teem

With what diseases; what the humid South495

Prepares, and what the Dæmon of the East:

But you perhaps refuse the tedious song.

Besides, whatever plagues in heat, or cold,

Or drought, or moisture dwell, they hurt not you,

Skill’d to correct the vices of the sky,500

And taught already how to each extream

To bend your life. But should the public bane

Infect you, or some trespass of your own,

Or flaw of nature hint mortality:

Soon as a not unpleasing horror glides505

Along the spine, thro’ all your torpid limbs;

When first: the head throbs, or the stomach feels

A sickly load, a weary pain the loins;

Be Celsus call’d: The fates come rushing on;

The rapid fates admit of no delay.510

While wilful you, and fatally secure,

Expect to morrow’s more auspicious sun,

The growing pest, whose infancy was weak

And easy vanquish’d, with triumphant sway

O’erpow’rs your life. For want of timely care515

Millions have died of medicable wounds.

Ah! in what perils is vain life engag’d!What slight neglects, what trivial faults destroyThe hardiest frame! Of indolence, of toil,We die; of want, of superfluity.520The all-surrounding heaven, the vital air,Is big with death. And, tho’ the putrid SouthBe shut; tho’ no convulsive agonyShake, from the deep foundations of the world,Th’ imprisoned plagues; a secret venom oft525Corrupts the air, the water, and the land.What livid deaths has sad Byzantium seen!How oft has Cairo, with a mother’s woe,Wept o’er her slaughter’d sons, and lonely streets!Even Albion, girt with less malignant skies,530Albion the poison of the Gods has drunk,And felt the sting of monsters all her own.

Ah! in what perils is vain life engag’d!

What slight neglects, what trivial faults destroy

The hardiest frame! Of indolence, of toil,

We die; of want, of superfluity.520

The all-surrounding heaven, the vital air,

Is big with death. And, tho’ the putrid South

Be shut; tho’ no convulsive agony

Shake, from the deep foundations of the world,

Th’ imprisoned plagues; a secret venom oft525

Corrupts the air, the water, and the land.

What livid deaths has sad Byzantium seen!

How oft has Cairo, with a mother’s woe,

Wept o’er her slaughter’d sons, and lonely streets!

Even Albion, girt with less malignant skies,530

Albion the poison of the Gods has drunk,

And felt the sting of monsters all her own.

Ere yet the fell Plantagenets had spentTheir ancient rage, at Bosworth’s purple field;While, for which tyrant England should receive,535Her legions in incestuous murders mix’d,And daily horrors; till the Fates were drunkWith kindred blood by kindred hands profus’d:Another plague of more gygantic armArose, a monster never known before540Rear’d from Cocytus its portentuous head.This rapid fury not, like other pests,Pursued a gradual course, but in a dayRush’d as a storm o’er half th’ astonish’d isle,And strew’d with sudden carcasses the land.545

Ere yet the fell Plantagenets had spent

Their ancient rage, at Bosworth’s purple field;

While, for which tyrant England should receive,535

Her legions in incestuous murders mix’d,

And daily horrors; till the Fates were drunk

With kindred blood by kindred hands profus’d:

Another plague of more gygantic arm

Arose, a monster never known before540

Rear’d from Cocytus its portentuous head.

This rapid fury not, like other pests,

Pursued a gradual course, but in a day

Rush’d as a storm o’er half th’ astonish’d isle,

And strew’d with sudden carcasses the land.545

First thro’ the shoulders, or whatever partWas seiz’d the first, a fervid vapour sprung.With rash combustion thence, the quivering sparkShot to the heart, and kindled all within;And soon the surface caught the spreading fires.550Thro’ all the yielding pores the melted bloodGush’d out in smoaky sweats; but nought assuag’dThe torrid heat within, nor aught reliev’dThe stomach’s anguish. With incessant toil,Desperate of ease, impatient of their pain,555They toss’d from side to side. In vain the streamRan full and clear, they burnt and thirsted still.The restless arteries with rapid bloodBeat strong and frequent. Thick and pantinglyThe breath was fetch’d, and with huge lab’rings heav’d.560At last a heavy pain oppress’d the head,A wild delirium came; their weeping friendsWere strangers now, and this no home of theirs.Harass’d with toil on toil, the sinking powersLay prostrate and o’erthrown; a ponderous sleep565Wrapt all the senses up: They slept and died.

First thro’ the shoulders, or whatever part

Was seiz’d the first, a fervid vapour sprung.

With rash combustion thence, the quivering spark

Shot to the heart, and kindled all within;

And soon the surface caught the spreading fires.550

Thro’ all the yielding pores the melted blood

Gush’d out in smoaky sweats; but nought assuag’d

The torrid heat within, nor aught reliev’d

The stomach’s anguish. With incessant toil,

Desperate of ease, impatient of their pain,555

They toss’d from side to side. In vain the stream

Ran full and clear, they burnt and thirsted still.

The restless arteries with rapid blood

Beat strong and frequent. Thick and pantingly

The breath was fetch’d, and with huge lab’rings heav’d.560

At last a heavy pain oppress’d the head,

A wild delirium came; their weeping friends

Were strangers now, and this no home of theirs.

Harass’d with toil on toil, the sinking powers

Lay prostrate and o’erthrown; a ponderous sleep565

Wrapt all the senses up: They slept and died.

In some a gentle horror crept at firstO’er all the limbs; the sluices of the skinWithheld their moisture, till by art provok’dThe sweats o’erflow’d; but in a clammy tide:570Now free and copious, now restrain’d and slow;Of tinctures various, as the temperatureHad mix’d the blood; and rank with fetid steams:As if the pent-up humors by delayWere grown more fell, more putrid, and malign.575Here lay their hopes (tho’ little hope remain’d)With full effusion of perpetual sweatsTo drive the venom out. And here the fatesWere kind, that long they linger’d not in pain.For who surviv’d the sun’s diurnal race580Rose from the dreary gates of hell redeem’d:Some the sixth hour oppress’d, and some the third.

In some a gentle horror crept at first

O’er all the limbs; the sluices of the skin

Withheld their moisture, till by art provok’d

The sweats o’erflow’d; but in a clammy tide:570

Now free and copious, now restrain’d and slow;

Of tinctures various, as the temperature

Had mix’d the blood; and rank with fetid steams:

As if the pent-up humors by delay

Were grown more fell, more putrid, and malign.575

Here lay their hopes (tho’ little hope remain’d)

With full effusion of perpetual sweats

To drive the venom out. And here the fates

Were kind, that long they linger’d not in pain.

For who surviv’d the sun’s diurnal race580

Rose from the dreary gates of hell redeem’d:

Some the sixth hour oppress’d, and some the third.

Of many thousands few untainted ’scap’d;Of those infected fewer ’scap’d alive:Of those who liv’d some felt a second blow;585And whom the second spar’d a third destroy’d.Frantic with fear, they sought by flight to shunThe fierce contagion. O’er the mournful landTh’ infected city pour’d her hurrying swarms:Rous’d by the flames that fir’d her seats around,590Th’ infected country rush’d into the town.Some, sad at home, and in the desart some,Abjur’d the fatal commerce of mankind;In vain: where’er they fled the Fates pursued.Others, with hopes more specious, cross’d the main,595To seek protection in far-distant skies;But none they found. It seem’d the general airWas then at enmity with English blood.For, but the race of England, all were safeIn foreign climes; nor did this fury taste600The foreign blood which Albion then contain’d.Where should they fly? The circumambient heavenInvolv’d them still; and every breeze was bane.Where find relief? The salutary artWas mute; and, startled at the new disease,605In fearful whispers hopeless omens gave.To heaven with suppliant rites they sent their pray’rs;Heav’n heard them not. Of every hope depriv’d;Fatigu’d with vain resources; and subduedWith woes resistless and enfeebling fear;610Passive they sunk beneath the weighty blow.Nothing but lamentable sounds was heard,Nor ought was seen but ghastly views of death;Infectious horror ran from face to face,And pale despair. ’Twas all the business then615To tend the sick, and in their turns to die.In heaps they fell: And oft one bed, they say,The sickening, dying, and the dead contain’d.

Of many thousands few untainted ’scap’d;

Of those infected fewer ’scap’d alive:

Of those who liv’d some felt a second blow;585

And whom the second spar’d a third destroy’d.

Frantic with fear, they sought by flight to shun

The fierce contagion. O’er the mournful land

Th’ infected city pour’d her hurrying swarms:

Rous’d by the flames that fir’d her seats around,590

Th’ infected country rush’d into the town.

Some, sad at home, and in the desart some,

Abjur’d the fatal commerce of mankind;

In vain: where’er they fled the Fates pursued.

Others, with hopes more specious, cross’d the main,595

To seek protection in far-distant skies;

But none they found. It seem’d the general air

Was then at enmity with English blood.

For, but the race of England, all were safe

In foreign climes; nor did this fury taste600

The foreign blood which Albion then contain’d.

Where should they fly? The circumambient heaven

Involv’d them still; and every breeze was bane.

Where find relief? The salutary art

Was mute; and, startled at the new disease,605

In fearful whispers hopeless omens gave.

To heaven with suppliant rites they sent their pray’rs;

Heav’n heard them not. Of every hope depriv’d;

Fatigu’d with vain resources; and subdued

With woes resistless and enfeebling fear;610

Passive they sunk beneath the weighty blow.

Nothing but lamentable sounds was heard,

Nor ought was seen but ghastly views of death;

Infectious horror ran from face to face,

And pale despair. ’Twas all the business then615

To tend the sick, and in their turns to die.

In heaps they fell: And oft one bed, they say,

The sickening, dying, and the dead contain’d.

Ye guardian Gods, on whom the Fates dependOf tottering Albion! Ye eternal fires,620That lead thro’ heav’n the wandering year! Ye powers,That o’er th’ incircling elements preside!May nothing worse than what this age has seenArrive! Enough abroad, enough at homeHas Albion bled. Here a distemper’d heaven625Has thin’d her cities; from those lofty cliffsThat awe proud Gaul, to Thule’s wintry reign;While in the West, beyond th’ Atlantic foam,Her bravest sons, keen for the fight, have diedThe death of cowards, and of common men;630Sunk void of wounds, and fall’n without renown.

Ye guardian Gods, on whom the Fates depend

Of tottering Albion! Ye eternal fires,620

That lead thro’ heav’n the wandering year! Ye powers,

That o’er th’ incircling elements preside!

May nothing worse than what this age has seen

Arrive! Enough abroad, enough at home

Has Albion bled. Here a distemper’d heaven625

Has thin’d her cities; from those lofty cliffs

That awe proud Gaul, to Thule’s wintry reign;

While in the West, beyond th’ Atlantic foam,

Her bravest sons, keen for the fight, have died

The death of cowards, and of common men;630

Sunk void of wounds, and fall’n without renown.

But from these views the weeping Muses turn,And other themes invite my wandering song.

But from these views the weeping Muses turn,

And other themes invite my wandering song.

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