There was a Time, and Poets paint it fair, (A wild, uncertain, musing, madning Race) A Golden Age, when wealth was only Love: 250 Not even Fancy dreamt a Dream of Care, The Sward was not--and Desolation slept Till by a Crime awaken'd; not e'en Song Wore Semblatude of War;--Eternal Spring From the unfurrow'd Field the heavy Ear Drew smiling, and the undistinguish'd year Brought willing plenty forth, nor scorn'd she then A Common Call, enamour'd of her plough. The Clinging Vine prest down the branching Elm E'en to the Earth, and in her verdant Lap 260 The tributary Grape, yet growing, laid. The simple Shepherd pip'd a silvan Lay; Or, while the Fair who charm'd him prest beside, The listning Vale sung hymeneal Strains, And woo'd with melting Themes a ten years' Bride. Eugenio, thus they taught; and after this A silver age arose, and hers the Scenes Not Gold could purchase now: when Vice, afraid, Hid his pale Visage in the womb of Night, And blush'd, if but a Moon-beam met his Eye. 270 The Seasons alter'd, but the Change was slow, And Man forgot they chang'd; then Care began To plow his Furrows on the Brow of Age, And Falshood from the female Eye to steal The silent Tear; then prudence took her Seat Within the Soul, and reign'd in Virtue's room. Then Vanity, a Child, first learn'd to bend The ready Ear to tales of her own praise; Nor knew she yet the Gross of Flattery, But was, as Modesty is now, afraid 280 The Verse she lov'd should tickle her too much. Then young Ambition wore his Russet Gown Only in better Form, and Infant pomp But saw his Garden smile in richer Bloom, And propt his Cottage with a taller pier.-- Since these, dread Sorrow, consequent of Sin And foul Deformity, the Breast of Man And the Sad Surface of the Earth enrobes.-- From the Dark Bosom of the Giant Guilt Leak'd all Things terrible, and Murder first, 290 Who proul'd about the Earth and groan'd for Blood; And treachery, breaking up the League of Friends And rending Nature's Bond, a solemn writ, With Heaven's own Seal imprest: and Avarice pale, A Woolfish-Visag'd Fiend [and] fang'd with Care. Hence War, in all her guilty Majesty In slow pomp riding o'er a [threat'ned] Land, With all the murderous Whispers of the Camp And shout of Ambush, castigates the Night.-- And hence the Spirits from th' Abyss of Hell, 300 That prey upon Mankind.--Eugenio, give Thy Soul's pure Eye, that sees immortal things, To the grim Spectres hovering in the Air, And we will mark the dreary Train that vex The mortal Man, and ride with ghostly pomp, Frowning upon the Midnight's murky Wing.--