Muse of my Spenser, who so well could sing
The passions all, their bearings and their ties;
Who could in view those shadowy beings bring,
And with bold hand remove each dark disguise,
Wherein love, hatred, scorn, or anger lies:
Guide him to Fairy-land, who now intends
That way his flight; assist him as he flies,
To mark those passions, Virtue’s foes and friends,
By whom when led she droops, when leading she ascends.
Yes! they appear, I see the fairy train!
And who that modest nymph of meek address?
Not vanity, though loved by all the vain;
Not Hope, though promising to all success;
Not Mirth, nor Joy, though foe to all distress;
Thee, sprightly syren, from this train I choose,
Thy birth relate, thy soothing arts confess;
’Tis not in thy mild nature to refuse,
When poets ask thine aid, so oft their meed and muse.
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In Fairy-land, on wide and cheerless plain,
Dwelt, in the house of Care a sturdy swain;
A hireling he, who, when he till’d the soil,
Look’d to the pittance that repaid his toil,
And to a master left the mingled joy
And anxious care that follow’d his employ.
Sullen and patient he at once appear’d,
As one who murmur’d, yet as one who fear’d;
Th’attire was coarse that clothed his sinewy
frame,
Rude his address, and Poverty his name.
In that same plain a nymph, of curious
taste,
A cottage (plann’d, with all her skill) had
placed;
Strange the materials, and for what design’d
The various parts, no simple man might find;
What seem’d the door, each entering guest withstood,
What seem’d a window was but painted wood;
But by a secret spring the wall would move,
And daylight drop through glassy door above:
’Twas all her pride, new traps for praise to
lay,
And all her wisdom was to hide her way;
In small attempts incessant were her pains,
And Cunning was her name among the swains.
Now, whether fate decreed this pair should
wed,
And blindly drove them to the marriage bed;
Or whether love in some soft hour inclined
The damsel’s heart, and won her to be kind,
Is yet unsung: they were an ill-match’d
pair,
But both disposed to wed—and wed they were.
Yet, though united in their fortune, still
Their ways were diverse; varying was their will;
Nor long the maid had bless’d the simple man,
Before dissensions rose, and she began: —
“Wretch that I am! since to thy
fortune bound,
What plan, what project, with success is crown’d?
I, who a thousand secret arts possess,
Who every rank approach with right address;
Who’ve loosed a guinea from a miser’s
chest,
And worm’d his secret from a traitor’s
breast;
Thence gifts and gains collecting, great and small,
Have brought to thee, and thou consum’st them
all;
For want like thine—a bog without a base
—
Ingulfs all gains I gather for the place;