There sat Dan Fantasy in lofty state, To whose ascending throne the group drew near, On each side ranged the Graces on him wait, Aonian maidens of the fountain clear; While he a crown of dazzling stars did wear, Like to Urania’s diadem of night, His brows with laurel graced did eke appear, A sky-blue tunic formed his vestment bright, O’er which a saffron robe, like summer’s air, fell light. XXVII. And there were instruments of music brought, With dulcet sounds that could enchantment wake; But chief the lyre, the soul enthrilling caught, And all its tones of sweetness did partake, Harmonic chords, that one Elysium make; The Thalian sock and buskin were displayed, And mask, that caused the sides with laughter shake, The lyric song, and pastoral, scattered laid, And there the Homeric muse, the lofty mind portrayed. XXVIII. With hurried glance they scarce had time to scan Those fond pursuits that did Sir Dan employ, Ere through the long saloon a whisp’ring ran, That did delight them with a pleasing joy; Not children blithe so hankered after toy, When known it was his Grace would shortly speak, And give them full invite without annoy, Whose thought did o’er their weary spirits break, Like cheerful matin dawn, that doth th’ horizon streak. XXIX. “Ye care-worn, toiling race,” he thus began, “In moody dulness doomed to moil for bread, Children of earth, to soothe, if soothe I can, Your thorny path, and cheer your drooping head; And if my art have power, some sunshine shed; For you my anxious breast oft heav’d the sigh, When to your fate my roving thoughts were led; Sad fate! like brutes immured in filthy sty, Ye seemed to grovel on, nor cared to live or die. XXX. “What could entice ye pent in loathsome den, From dawn of day to shadowy close of eve, A charnel-house of labour, choked with men, Women, and children wan; ye may perceive The factory stalking-ghosts, here doomed to weave For their employer’s wealth; poor recompense The dole dealt out, for loss of health to grieve, And ling’ring groan, sad poverty’s offence, Their shorten’d thread of life ’neath want and abstinence. XXXI. “What pleasure is there in your drudgery found, Like mere machines in motion set, I trow, That go the same unvaried, sick’ning round, The mind as dull, without an ebb or flow, Stagnant, that scarce the vital spark doth show, Like him, immersed in wildering ledger huge, Pores o’er the page, to cast if right or no, With addled brain, that few can envious grudge, His unrequited pains, poor pate-disturbed drudge! XXXII.