XXXVI.

They talk'd of virtue, and of human bliss.
What else so fit for man to settle well?
And still their long researches met in this,

This truth of truths, which nothing can refel: "From virtue's fount the purest joys out-well, "Sweet rills of thought that cheer the conscious soul; "While vice pours forth the troubled streams of hell, "The which, howe'er disguis'd, at last with dole "Will, through the tortur'd breast, their fiery torrent "roll."

XXXVII.

At length it dawn'd, that fatal valley gay,

O'er which high wood-crown'd hills their summits

rear:

On the cool height awhile our palmers stay,

And spite even of themselves their senses cheer; Then to the vizard's wonne their steps they steer. Like a green isle, it broad beneath them spred, With gardens round, and wandering currents clear, And tufted groves to shade the meadow bed,

Sweet airs and song; and without hurry all seem'd glad.

XXXVIII.

"As God shall judge me, knight, we must forgive

(The half enraptur'd Philomelus cry'd)

"The frail good man deluded here to live,

"And in these groves his musing fancy hide.

"Ah! nought is pure. It cannot be deny'd,
"That virtue still some tincture has of vice,
"And vice of virtue. What should then betide,

"But that our charity be not too nice?

"Come, let us those we can to real bliss entice."

"Ay, sicker (quoth the knight), all flesh is frail,

"To pleasant sin and joyous dalliance bent; "But let not brutish vice of this avail,

"And think to 'scape deserved punishment. "Justice were cruel weakly to relent;

"From Mercy's self she got her sacred glaive: "Grace be to those who can, and will, repent; "But penance long, and dreary, to the slave, "Who must in floods of fire his gross foul spirit lave."

XL.

Thus, holding high discourse, they came to where The cursed carle was at his wonted trade; Still tempting heedless men into his snare, In witching wise, as I before have said. But when he saw, in goodly geer array'd, The grave majestic knight approaching nigh, And by his side the bard so sage and staid, His countenance fell; yet oft his anxious eye Mark'd them, like wily fox who roosted cock doth

spy.

XLI.

Nathless, with feign'd respect, he bade give back The rabble-route, and welcom'd them full kind; Struck with the noble twain, they were not slack His orders to obey, and fall behind. Then he resum'd his song; and unconfin'd, Pour'd all his music, ran through all his strings: With magic dust their eyne he tries to blind, And virtue's tender airs o'er weakness flings. What pity base his song who so divinely sings!

XLII.

Elate in thought, he counted them his own,
They listen'd so intent with fix'd delight:
But they instead, as if transmew'd to stone,
Marvel'd he could with such sweet art unite
The lights and shades of manners, wrong and right.
Mean time, the silly crowd the charm devour,
Wide pressing to the gate. Swift, on the knight
He darted fierce, to drag him to his bower,

Who back'ning shunn'd his touch, for well he knew its power.

XLIII.

As in throng'd amphitheatre, of old,
The wary Retiarius* trap'd his foe;
Even so the knight, returning on him bold,
At once involv'd him in the net of woe,
Whereof I mention made not long ago.
Enrag'd at first, he scorn'd so weak a jail,
And leapt, and flew, and flounced to and fro;
But when he found that nothing could avail,
He set him felly down and gnaw'd his bitter nail.

XLIV.

Alarm'd, th' inferior demons of the place
Raised rueful shrieks and hideous yells around;
Black stormy clouds deform'd the welkin's face,
And from beneath was heard a wailing sound,
As of infernal sprites in cavern bound;

A solemn sadness every creature strook,

And lightnings flash'd, and horror rock'd the ground: Huge crowds on crowds out-pour'd, with blemish’đ look,

As if on time's last verge this frame of things had shook.

A gladiator, who made use of a net, which he threw over his adversary.

XLV.

Soon as the short-lived tempest was yspent, Steam'd from the jaws of vex'd Avernus' hole, And hush'd the hubbub of the rabblement, Sir Industry the first calm moment stole. "There must (he cry'd), amid so vast a shoal, "Be some who are not tainted at the heart, "Not poison'd quite by this same villain's bowl: "Come then, my bard! thy heavenly fire impart : "Touch soul with soul, till forth the latent spirit start.”

XLVI.

The bard obey'd; and taking from his side,
Where it in seemly sort depending hung,
His British harp, its speaking strings he try'd,
The which with skilful touch he deffly strung,
Till tinkling in clear symphony they rung.
Then, as he felt the Muses come along,

Light o'er the chords his raptur'd hand he flung,

And play'd a prelude to his rising song:

The whilst, like midnight mute, ten thousands round

him throng.

XLVII.

Thus, ardent, burst his strain.▬▬▬▬▬▬

"Ye hapless race,

Dire-labouring here to smother Reason's ray, "That lights our Maker's image in our face,

"And gives us wide o'er earth unquestion'd sway; "What is th' ador'd Supreme Perfection, say?

"What, but eternal never-resting soul,

"Almighty power, and all-directing day;

"By whom each atom stirs, the planets roll;

"Who fills, surrounds, informs, and agitates the whole.

XLVIII.

"Come, to the beaming God your hearts unfold! "Draw from its fountain life! "Tis thence, alone, "We can excel. Up from unfeeling mold, "To seraphs burning round th' Almighty's throne, "Life rising still on life, in higher tone, "Perfection forms, and with perfection bliss. "In universal Nature this clear shown,

"Not needeth proof: to proof it were, I wis, "To prove the beauteous world excels the brute abyss.

XLIX.

"Is not the field, with lively culture green, "A sight more joyous than the dead morass? "Do not the skies, with active ether clean, "And fann'd by sprightly Zephyrs, far surpass "The foul November fogs, and slumberous mass, "With which sad Nature veils her drooping face? "Does not the mountain-stream, as clear as glass, “Gay-dancing on, the putrid pool disgrace? "The same in all holds true, but chief in human race.

L.

"It was not by vile loitering in ease,

"That Greece obtain❜d the brighter palm of art, "That soft yet ardent Athens learn'd to please,

"To keen the wit, and to sublime the heart, "In all supreme! complete in every part!

"It was not thence majestic Rome arose, "And o'er the nations shook her conquering dart: "For sluggard's brow the laurel never grows;

"Renown is not the child of indolent repose.