LXVI.

And here and there, on trees by lightning scath'd,
Unhappy wights who loathed life yhung;

Or, in fresh gore and recent murder bath'd,
They weltering lay; or else, infuriate flung
Into the gloomy flood, while ravens sung

The funeral dirge, they down the torrent rowl'd:
These, by distemper'd blood to madness stung,

Had doom'd themselves; whence oft, when night controul'd

The world, returning hither their sad spirits howl'd.

LXVII.

Meantime a moving scene was open laid;
That lazar-house, I whilom in my lay
Depeinted have, its horrors deep display'd,
And gave unnumber'd wretches to the day,
Who tossing there in squalid misery lay.
Soon as of sacred light th' unwonted smile
Pour'd on these living catacombs its ray,

Through the drear caverns stretching many a mile, The sick up-raised their heads, and dropp'd their woes

awhile.

LXVIII.

"O heaven! (they cry'd) and do we once more see "Yon blessed sun, and this green earth so fair? "Are we from noisome damps of pest-house free? "And drink our souls the sweet ethereal air? "O thou! or Knight, or God! who holdest there "That fiend, oh keep him in eternal chains! "But what for us, the children of despair,

Brought to the brink of hell, what hope remains? "Repentance does itself but aggravate our pains."

LXIX.

The gentle knight, who saw their rueful case, Let fall adown his silver beard some tears. "Certes (quoth he) it is not even in grace, "T'undo the past, and eke your broken years: "Nathless, to nobler worlds Repentance rears, "With humble hope, her eye; to her is given "A power the truly contrite heart, that cheers; "She quells the brand by which the rocks are riven; "She more than merely softens-she rejoices Heaven.

LXX.

"Then patient bear the sufferings you have earn'd, "And by these sufferings purify the mind; "Let wisdom be by past misconduct learn'd: "Or pious die, with penitence resign'd; "And to a life more happy and refin’d, "Doubt not, you shall, new creatures, yet arise.

"Till then, you may expect in me to find

"One who will wipe your sorrow from your eyes,

"One who will soothe your pangs, and wing you to the

"skies."

LXXI.

They silent heard, and pour'd their thanks in tears. "For you (resum'd the knight with sterner tone) "Whose hard dry hearts th' obdurate demon sears, "That villain's gifts will cost you many a groan; "In dolorous mansion long you must bemoan "His fatal charms, and weep your stains away; "Till, soft and pure as infant goodness grown, "You feel a perfect change: then, who can say, "What grace may yet shine forth in Heaven's eternal "day?"

LXXII.

This said, his powerful wand he waved anew:
Instant, a glorious angel-train descends,
The Charities, to-wit, of rosy hue;

Sweet love their looks a gentle radiance lends,
And with seraphic flame compassion blends.
At once, delighted, to their charge they fly:
When, lo! a goodly hospital ascends;

In which they bade each lenient aid be nigh,
That could the sick-bed smoothe of that sad company.

LXXIII.

It was a worthy edifying sight,

And gives to human kind peculiar grace, To see kind hands attending day and night, With tender ministry, from place to place. Some prop the head; some, from the pallid face Wipe off the faint cold dews weak Nature sheds; Some reach the healing draught: the whilst, to chase The fear supreme, around their soften'd beds, Some holy man by prayer all opening heaven dispreds.

LXXIV.

Attended by a glad acclaiming train,

Of those he rescu'd had from gaping hell,
Then turn'd the knight; and, to his hall again
Soft-pacing, sought of peace the mossy cell:
Yet down his cheeks the gems of pity fell,

To see the helpless wretches that remain'd,
There left through delves and deserts dire to yell;
Amazed, their looks with pale dismay were stain'd,
And spreading wide their hands they meek repentance
feign'd.

LXXV.

But ah! their scorned day of grace was past:

For (horrible to tell!) a desert wild

Before them stretch'd, bare, comfortless, and vast;
With gibbets, bones, and carcases defil'd.

There nor trim field, nor lively culture smiled;
Nor waving shade was seen, nor fountain fair;
But sands abrupt on sands lay loosely piled,

Through which they floundering toil'd with painful care, Whilst Phoebus smote them sore, and fired the cloudless air.

LXXVI.

Then, varying to a joyless land of bogs,
The sadden'd country a grey waste appear'd;
Where nought but putrid steams and noisome fogs
For ever hung on drizzly Auster's beard;
Or else the ground by piercing Caurus sear'd,
Was jagg'd with frost, or heap'd with glazed snow:
Through these extremes a ceaseless round they steer'd,
By cruel fiends still hurry'd to and fro,

Gaunt Beggary and Scorn, with many hell-hounds moe.

LXXVII.

The first was with base dunghill rags yclad,
Tainting the gale, in which they flutter'd light;
Of morbid hue his features, sunk, and sad;
His hollow eyne shook forth a sickly light;
And o'er his lank jaw-bone, in piteous plight,
His black rough beard was matted rank and vile;
Direful to see! an heart appalling sight!

Meantime foul scurf and blotches him defile;

And dogs, where-e'er he went, still barked all the while.

LXXVIII.

The other was a fell despiteful fiend:

Hell holds none worse in baleful bower below:

By pride, and wit, and rage, and rancour, keen'd;
Of man alike, if good or bad, the foe:

With nose up-turn'd, he always made a show
As if he smelt some nauseous scent; his eye

Was cold, and keen, like blast from boreal snow:
And taunts he casten forth most bitterly.

Such were the twain that off drove this ungodly fry.

LXXIX.

Even so through Brentford town, a town of mud,
An herd of bristly swine is prick'd along;

The filthy beasts, that never chew the cud,

Still grunt, and squeak, and sing their troublous song,
And oft they plunge themselves the mire among:
But ay the ruthless driver goads them on,
And ay of barking dogs the bitter throng
Makes them renew their unmelodious moan;

Ne ever find they rest from their unresting fone.