The express resemblance of the gods, is changed Into some brutish form-of wolf, or bear, Or ounce, or tiger, hog, or bearded goat— All other parts remaining as they were; And they,- —so perfect is their misery,— Not once perceive their foul disfigurement,
But boast themselves more comely than before; And all their friends and native home forget, To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty. Therefore when any, favoured of high Jove, Chances to pass through this adventurous glade, Swift as the sparkle of a glancing star
I shoot from Heaven, to give him safe convoy, As now I do: but first I must put off These my sky-robes spun out of Iris' woof, And take the weeds and likeness of a swain, That to the service of this house belongs,
Who with his soft pipe, and smooth-dittied song, Well knows to still the wild winds when they roar, And hush the waving woods; nor of less faith, And in this office of his mountain watch, Likeliest, and nearest to the present aid Of this occasion.-But I hear the tread Of hateful steps.--I must be viewless now.
Comus enters with a charming-rod in one hand, his glass in the other; with him a rout of monsters, headed like sundry sorts of wild beasts, but otherwise like men and women, their apparel glistering; they come in, making a riotous and unruly noise, with torches in their hands.
Com. The star that bids the shepherd fold,
Now the top of Heaven doth hold;
And the gilded car of Day,
His glowing axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantic stream;
And the slope Sun his upward beam Shoots against the dusky pole, Pacing toward the other goal Of his chamber in the East.
Meanwhile welcome Joy and Feast,
Imitate the starry quire,
Who, in their nightly watchful spheres, Lead in swift round the months and years.
The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove, Now to the moon, in wavering morrice, move, And, on the tawny sands and shelves,
Trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.
By dimpled brook and fountain-brim,
The wood-nymphs, decked with daisies trim, Their merry wakes and pastimes keep:
What hath night to do with sleep? Night hath better sweets to prove;—
Venus now wakes, and wakens Love. Come let us our rites begin!
'Tis only day-light that makes sin,
Which these dun shades will ne'er report. Hail Goddess of nocturnal sport,
Dark-veiled Cotytto! to whom the secret flame Of midnight torches burns; mysterious dame,- That ne'er art called, but when the dragon-womb Of Stygian darkness spets her thickest gloom, And makes one blot of all the air,-
Stay thy cloudy ebon chair,
Wherein thou ridest with Hecatè, and befriend
Us thy vowed priests, till utmost end
Of all thy dues be done, and none left out;
Ere the babbling eastern scout,
The nice Morn, on the Indian steep
From her cabined loop-hole peep,
And to the tell-tale Sun descry
Our concealed solemnity.—
Come, knit hands, and beat the ground In a light fantastic round.
Break off, break off! I feel the different pace Of some chase footing near about this ground. Run to your shrouds, within these brakes and trees; Our number may affright: some virgin sure (For so I can distinguish by mine art)
Benighted in these woods. Now to my charms And to my wily trains; I shall ere long
Be well stocked with as fair a herd as grazed About my mother Circe. Thus I hurl My dazzling spells into the spungy air,— Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion, And give it false presentments, lest the place, And my quaint habits, breed astonishment, And put the damsel to suspicious flight;—
Which must not be, for that's against my course: I, under fair pretence of friendly ends,
And well placed words of glozing courtesy, Baited with reasons not unplausible, Wind me into the easy-hearted man,
And hug him into snares. When once her eye Hath met the virtue of this magic dust,
I shall appear some harmless villager
Whom thrift keeps up about his country gear.
And hearken, if I may, her business here.
This way the noise was, if mine ear be true
My best guide now;-methought it was the sound Of riot and ill-managed merriment,
Such as the jocund flute, or gamesome pipe, Stirs up among the loose unlettered hinds, When for their teeming flocks, and granges full, In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, And thank the Gods amiss. I should be loth To meet the rudeness, and swilled insolence
Of such late wassailers; yet, oh! where else Shall I inform my unacquainted feet In the blind mazes of this tangled wood? My brothers, when they saw me wearied out With this long way, resolving here to lodge Under the spreading favour of these pines, Stept, as they said, to the next thicket-side To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit As the kind hospitable woods provide. They left me then, when the gray-hooded Even, Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed,
Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain. But where they are, and why they came not back, Is now the labour of my thought; 'tis likeliest · They had engaged their wandering steps too far, And envious darkness, ere they could return, Had stole them from me; else, O thievish Night! Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious end, In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars,
That Nature hung in Heaven, and filled their lamps With everlasting oil, to give due light
To the misled and lonely traveller?
This is the place, as well as I may guess, Whence even now the tumult of loud Mirth Was rife, and perfect in my listening ear, Yet nought but single darkness do I find. What might this be? A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory,
Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues, that syllable men's names On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. These thoughts may startle well, but not astound The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended By a strong-siding champion-Conscience.-- O welcome pure-eyed Faith! white-handed Hope! Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings, And thou, unblemished form of Chastity!
I see ye visibly, and now believe
That he, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill Are but as slavish officers of vengeance,
Would send a glistering guardian, if need were, To keep my life and honour unassailed. Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud
Turn forth her silver lining on the night ?—
I did not err, there does a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night, And casts a gleam over this tufted grove. I cannot halloo to my brothers; but
Such noise as I can make to be heard furthest I'll venture, for my new enlivened spirits Prompt me; and they perhaps are not far off.
Sweet Echo! sweetest nymph, that livest unseen Within thy airy shell,
By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet-embroidered vale,
Where the love-lorn nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
That likest thy Narcissus are?
Oh, if thou have
Hid them in some flowery cave
Tell me but where,
Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere!
So mayst thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies.
Com. Can any mortal mixture of Earth's mould Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment?— Sure something holy lodges in that breast, And with these raptures moves the vocal Air To testify his hidden residence: How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence, through the empty-vaulted Night, At every fall smoothing the raven-down
Of Darkness till it smiled! I have oft heard My mother Circè with the Sirens three, Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades Culling their potent herbs, and baleful drugs,
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