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Another guest* there was, of sense refined,
Who felt each worth, for every worth he had;
Serene yet warm, humane yet firm his mind,
As little touch'd as any man's with bad;
Him through their inmost walks the Muses lad,
To him the sacred love of nature lent,

And sometimes would he make our valley glad; Whenas we found he would not here be pent, To him the better sort this friendly message sent:


'Come, dwell with us! true son of virtue, come! But if, alas! we cannot thee persuade

To lie content beneath our peaceful dome,
Ne ever more to quit our quiet glade;

Yet when at last thy toils but ill apaid

Shall dead thy fire, and damp its heavenly spark,

Thou wilt be glad to seek the rural shade,

There to indulge the muse, and nature mark:

We then a lodge for thee will rear in Hagley Park.'


Here whilom ligg'd the Esopust of the age;
But call'd by fame, in soul ypricked deep,
A noble pride restored him to the stage,
And roused him like a giant from his sleep.

*George, Lord Lyttelton.

† Mr. Quin.

Even from his slumbers we advantage reap: With double force the enliven'd scene he wakes, Yet quits not nature's bounds. He knows to keep

Each due decorum: now the heart he shakes, And now with well urged sense the enlighten'd judgment takes.


A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems;
Who,* void of envy, guile, and lust of gain,
On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes,
Pour'd forth his unpremeditated strain:
The world forsaking with a calm disdain,
Here laugh'd he careless in his easy seat;
Here quaff'd, encircled with the joyous train,
Oft moralizing sage: his ditty sweet

He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat.


Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod,
Of clerks good plenty here you

mote espy.
A little, round, fat, oily man† of God,
Was one I chiefly mark'd among the fry:
He had a roguish twinkle in his eye,
And shone all glittering with ungodly dew,

The following lines of this stanza were writ by a friend of the author (since understood to have been Lord Lyttelton), and were designed to portray the character of Thomson.

†The Rev. Mr. Murdoch, Thomson's friend and biographer.

If a tight damsel chanced to trippen by ; Which when observed, he shrunk into his mew, And straight would recollect his piety anew.


Nor be forgot a tribe, who minded nought
(Old inmates of the place) but state-affairs:
They look'd, perdie, as if they deeply thought;
And on their brow sat every nation's cares;
The world by them is parcel'd out in shares,
When in the Hall of Smoke they congress hold,
And the sage berry, sun-burnt Mocha bears,
Has clear'd their inward eye: then, smoke-en-

Their oracles break forth mysterious as of old.


Here languid Beauty kept her pale-faced court: Bevies of dainty dames, of high degree,

From every quarter hither made resort; Where, from gross mortal care and business free, They lay, pour'd out in ease and luxury. Or should they a vain show of work assume, Alas! and well-a-day! what can it be? To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom; But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel, and loom.


Their only labour was to kill the time; (And labour dire it is, and weary woe)

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They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme;
Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go,
Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow:
This soon too rude an exercise they find;
Straight on the couch their limbs again they

Where hours on hours they sighing lie reclined, And court the vapoury god, soft breathing in the



Now must I mark the villany we found,
But ah! too late, as shall eftsoons be shown.
A place here was, deep, dreary, under ground;
Where still our inmates, when unpleasing grown,
Diseased, and loathsome, privily were thrown:
Far from the light of heaven, they languish'd

Unpitied uttering many a bitter groan ;

For of these wretches taken was no care:

Fierce fiends, and hags of hell, their only nurses


*After this stanza, the following one was introduced, in the edition of 1746:

One nymph there was, methought, in bloom of May,

On whom the idle Fiend glanced many a look,

In hopes to lead her down the slippery way
To taste of Pleasure's deep deceitful brook:
No virtues yet her gentle mind forsook:
No idle whims, no vapours fill'd her brain,
But Prudence for her youthful guide she took,
And Goodness, which no earthly vice could stain,
Dwelt in her mind; she was ne proud I ween or vain.


Alas! the change! from scenes of joy and rest, To this dark den, where sickness toss'd alway. Hère Lethargy, with deadly sleep oppress'd, Stretched on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay, Heaving his sides, and snored night and day; To stir him from his traunce it was not eath, And his half open'd eyne he shut straightway; He led, I wot, the softest way to death,

And taught withouten pain and strife to yield the breath.


Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound,
Soft-swoln and pale, here lay the Hydropsy:
Unwieldy man; with belly monstrous round,
For ever fed with watery supply;

For still he drank, and yet he still was dry.
And moping here did Hypochondria sit,
Mother of spleen, in robes of various dye,
Who vexed was full oft with ugly fit;

And some her frantic deem'd, and some her deem'd a wit.


A lady proud she was, of ancient blood,
Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low:
She felt, or fancied in her fluttering mood,
All the diseases which the spittles know,
And sought all physic which the shops bestow,

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