FROM THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

O MORTAL man, who livest here by toil,
Do not complain of this thy hard estate;
That like an emmet thou must ever moil,
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date;
And, certes, there is for it reason great;

For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail,
And curse thy star, and early drudge and late,
Withouten that would come an heavier bale,

Loose life, unruly passions and diseases pale.

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,

With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round,
A most enchanting wizard did abide,

Than whom a fiend more fell is no where found.

It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground;

And there a season atween June and May,

Half prankt with spring, with summer half embrown'd, A listless climate made, where, sooth to say,

No living wight could work, ne cared ev'n for play.

Was nought around but images of rest:

Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between;
And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest,
From poppies breath'd; and beds of pleasant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
Meantime unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd,
And hurled every where their waters sheen;
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny shade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills,
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills,
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale:
And now and then sweet Philomel would wail,
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep,
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale;
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep;
Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep.

Full in the passage of the vale, above,
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood;

Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move,
As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood:

And up the hills, on either side, a wood
Of blackening pines, ay waving to and fro,

Sent forth a sleepy horrour through the blood;
And where this valley winded out, below,

The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.

A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was,

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
For ever flushing round a summer-sky:
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast,
And the calm pleasures always hover'd nigh;
But whate'er smack'd of noyance, or unrest,
Was far far off expell'd from this delicious nest.

The landskip such, inspiring perfect ease,
Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight)
Close-hid his castle mid embowering trees,
That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright,
And made a kind of checker'd day and night;
Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate,
Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight
Was plac'd; and to his lute, of cruel fate,

And labour harsh, complain'd, lamenting man's estate.

Of all the gentle tenants of the place,
There was a man of special grave remark:
A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face,
Pensive, not sad, in thought involv'd, not dark;
As soot this man could sing as morning-lark,
And teach the noblest morals of the heart:
But these his talents were yburied stark ;
Of the fine stores he nothing would impart,
Which or boon Nature gave, or Nature-painting Art.

To noontide shades incontinent he ran,
Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound;
Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began,
Amid the broom he bask'd him on the ground,
Where the wild thyme and camomoil are found:
There would he linger, till the latest ray

Of light sat trembling on the welkin's bound;
Then homeward through the twilight shadows stray,
Sauntering and slow. So had he passed many a day!

Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they past:
For oft the heavenly fire, that lay conceal'd
Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast,
And all its native light anew reveal'd:
Oft as he travers'd the cerulean field,

And markt the clouds that drove before the wind,
Ten thousand glorious systems would he build,
Ten thousand great ideas fill'd his mind;

But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace behind.

With him was sometimes join'd, in silent walk,
(Profoundly silent, for they never spoke,)
One shyer still, who quite detested talk:
Oft, stung by spleen, at once away he broke,
To groves of pine, and broad o'ershadowing oak;
There, inly thrill'd, he wander'd all alone,

And on himself his pensive fury wroke,

Ne ever utter'd word, save when first shone

The glittering star of eve-"Thank Heaven! the day is done."

*

Ah! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven,
When drooping health and spirits go amiss?
How tasteless then whatever can be given !
Health is the vital principle of bliss,

And exercise of health. In proof of this,
Behold the wretch, who slugs his life away,
Soon swallow'd in disease's sad abyss;

While he whom toil has brac'd, or manly play,
Has light as air each limb, each thought as clear as day.

O, who can speak the vigorous joy of health? Unclogg'd the body, unobscur'd the mind: The morning rises gay, with pleasing stealth, The temperate evening falls serene and kind. In health the wiser brutes true gladness find. See how the younglings frisk along the meads, As May comes on, and wakes the balmy wind; Rampant with life, their joy all joy exceeds: Yet what but high-strung health this dancing pleasaunce breeds?

*

SONG.

FOR ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
An unrelenting foe to love,

And when we meet a mutual heart,
Come in between, and bid us part?

Bid us sigh on from day to day,
And wish, and wish the soul away;
Till youth and genial years are flown,
And all the life of life is gone?

But busy, busy, still art thou,
To bind the loveless joyless vow,
The heart from pleasure to delude,
To join the gentle to the rude.

For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
And I absolve thy future care;

All other blessings I resign,

Make but the dear Amanda mine.

ODE.

TELL me, thou soul of her I love,
Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled;
To what delightful world above,
Appointed for the happy dead?

Or dost thou, free, at pleasure, roam,
And sometimes share thy lover's woe;
Where, void of thee, his cheerless home
Can now, alas! no comfort know?

Oh! if thou hover'st round my walk, While under every well-known tree,

I to thy fancied shadow talk,

And every tear is full of thee;

Should then the weary eye of grief,
Beside some sympathetic stream,

In slumber find a short relief,

O visit thou my soothing dream!

P

DAVID MALLET was a native of Scotland, and born about the year 1700; but of his parentage and early education we know nothing. Dr. Johnson surmises that he was descended from the clan Macgregor; a clan which became "so formidable and infamous, that the name was annulled by legal abolition;" in consequence of which the father of the Poet assumed that of Mallock; which the son, for reasons which do not appear, altered to Mallet. In 1720 he was tutor in a family near Edinburgh; here he was fed and clothed and permitted to read books; but he was considered rather in the light of a dependant on charity, than a worker for, and earner of, fortune and fame. But Mallet was not destined to continue long an underling; he was appointed to educate the two sons of the Duke of Montrose: the "tide" was "taken at the flood." He made the usual continental tour with his pupils; improving and strengthening his mind, and gathering the materials which he afterwards worked up in his poem of "The Excursion." His talents obtained for him admission to the most brilliant circles of his time; among his patron-friends were Lyttleton, Chesterfield, and Bolingbroke-and his familiar associates were Pope, Thomson, and Young. More substantial advantages afterwards crowded upon him; he became under-secretary to the Prince of Wales; married a beautiful woman, and "lived in the style of a gentleman;" received from Bolingbroke a legacy of his works; was selected to arrange the papers and write a life of Marlborough-a labour for which he was richly paid, but which he never performed; wrote dramas, biographies, political pamphlets, and poems-all of which were profitable; and at length obtained the appointment of Keeper of the Book of Entries to the Port of London; and died, "in easy circumstances," in April, 1765.

His stature is described as diminutive, but he was regularly formed; his appearance till he grew corpulent was agreeable, and he suffered it to want no recommendation that dress could give it. His conversation was easy and elegant. Dr. Johnson, who has painted this portrait, mars it by a rude touch:-" The rest of his character may, without injury to his memory, sink into silence." His apologist, Dr. Anderson, admits that vanity was his predominant passion, and that he thought it no dishonour to be a ministerial hireling. He was employed to soil the memory of Pope; he received a pension for an address which contributed to hasten the execution of Byng; he flattered Garrick by a promise which he did not keep; he never even commenced the Life of Marlborough, for which he had been paid; and he sought, somewhat meanly, to add to the collection of papers left him by Lord Bolingbroke, by claiming a portion which had been previously given to another Such are the blots which deface the character of David Mallet.

His poems, except his two celebrated ballads, are now little known. They are distinguished by easy and elegant diction and sound judgment, rather than richness of fancy or vigour of expression. His natural powers had been cultivated with industry and care, but they were not of a very high order; few of his productions surpass mediocrity. "The Excursion," and "Amyntor and Theodora," the longest of his works, are in blank verse. The former invokes Imagination to ramble with the Bard over the earth and through the air-both are described, occasional episodes are introduced, and a running commentary is offered upon the wonders and peculiarities of each. The scene of the latter is laid in St. Kilda's Isle, and relates the history of two lovers-their trials and their joys. Its principal merit consists in pictures of the wild and rugged scenery of the "most remote and unfrequented of all the Hebrides." It is, however, but a tedious poem, and by no means succeeds in achieving the professed object of the writer-" to make it a regular and consistent whole; to be true to nature in his thoughts; and effectually to touch the passions." We read it unmoved, and sympathise very little in the misery or happiness of the youth and his " long lost but now found."

The ballads, "Edwin and Emma," and "William and Margaret"--both the records of actual occurrences-have done more to preserve the memory of Mallet than all the rest of his productions. They are of exceeding interest-an interest enhanced by their simplicity; and have been always classed among the happiest specimens of English verse. It would be difficult to find any compositions of the kind that have obtained a wider, or sustained a more enduring popularity.