The Muses fair, these peaceful shades among, With skilful fingers sweep the trembling strings; The air in silence listens to the song, And Time forgets to ply his lazy wings; Pale-visag’d Care, with foul unhallow’d feet, Attempts the summit of the hill to gain, Ne can the hag arrive the blissful seat, Her unavailing strength is spent in vain, Content sits on the top, and mocks her empty pain. Oft Phœbus’ self left his divine abode, And here enshrouded in a shady bow’r, Regardless of his state, laid by the god, And own’d sweet music’s more alluring pow’r. On either side was plac’d a peerless wight, Whose merit long had fill’d the trump of Fame; This, Fancy’s darling child, was Spenser hight, Who pip’d full pleasing on the banks of Tame; That, no less fam’d than he, and Milton was his name. . . . . . . . Next Shakespeare sat, irregularly great, And in his hand a magic rod did hold, Which visionary beings did create, And burn the foulest dross to purest gold: Whatever spirits rose in earth or air, Or bad or good, obey his dread command; To his behests these willingly repair, Those aw’d by terrors of his magic wand, The which not all their pow’rs united might withstand. Beside the bard there stood a beauteous maid, Whose glittering appearance dimm’d the eyen; Her thin-wrought vesture various tints display’d, Fancy her name, ysprong of race divine; Her mantle wimpled low, her silken hair, Which loose adown her well-turn’d shoulders stray’d, She made a net to catch the wanton air, Whose love-sick breezes all around her play’d, And seem’d in whispers soft to court the heav’nly maid. And ever and anon she wav’d in air A sceptre, fraught with all-creative pow’r: She wav’d it round: eftsoons there did appear Spirits and witches, forms unknown before: Again she lifts her wonder-working wand; Eftsoons upon the flow’ry plain were seen The gay inhabitants of Fairy-Land, And blithe attendants upon Mab their queen In mystic circles danc’d along th’ enchanted green. On th’ other side stood Nature, goddess fair; A matron seem’d she, and of manners staid; Beauteous her form, majestic was her air, In loose attire of purest white array’d: A potent rod she bore, whose pow’r was such (As from her darling’s works may well be shown,) That often with its soul-enchanting touch, She rais’d or joy or caus’d the deep-felt groan, And each man’s passions made subservient to her own. _The Progress of Envy_, 1751, Stanzas 2-4 and 7-10. OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 1765 (1728-1774)