Slew him, and ended thus the bloody cause :
And all the Gods around approved it with applause.
The victor could not from his insults keep,
But laugh'd and sneer'd to see Apollo weep.
Jove call'd him near, and gave him in his hand
The powerful, happy, and mysterious wand
By which the Shades are call'd to purer day,
When penal fire has purg'd their sins away;
By which the guilty are condemn'd to dwell
In the dark mansions of the deepest hell;
By which he gives us sleep, or sleep denies,
And closes at the last the dying eyes.
Soon after this, the heavenly victor brought
The game on earth, and first th' Italians taught.
For (as they say) fair Scacchis he espied
Feeding her cygnets in the silver tide,
(Scacchis, the loveliest Seriad of the place)
And as she stray'd, took her to his embrace.
Then, to reward her for her virtue lost,
Gave her the men and chequer'd board, emboss'd
With gold and silver curiously inlay'd;
And taught her how the game was to be play'd.
Ev'n now 'tis honour'd with her happy name;
And Rome and all the world admire the game.
All which the Seriads told me heretofore,
When my boy-notes amused the Serian shore.
URN, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.*
* Var.-Deign, saint-like tenant of the dale,
To guide my nightly way
To yonder fire that cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.
"For here, forlorn and lost, I tread,
With fainting steps and slow,
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go."
"Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, "To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom.
"Here, to the houseless child of want
My door is open still;
And, though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good-will.
"Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows-
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing, and repose.
"No flocks that range the valley free,
To slaughter I condemn :
Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them.
"But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring.
"Then, pilgrim, turn; thy cares forego,— All earth-born cares are wrong:
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell;
Far, in a wilderness obscure,
The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest;
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily press'd and smiled;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.
Around in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.
But, nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's woe,
For grief was heavy at his heart;
And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the Hermit spied,
With answering care oppress'd:
"And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, "The sorrows of thy breast?
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