The castle hight of Indolence, 
And its false luxury; 
Where for a little time, alas! 
We lived right jollily. 

O mortal man, who livest here by toil, 
Do not complain of this thy hard estate; 
That like an emmet thou must ever moil, 
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date: 
And, certes, there is for it reason great; 
For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, 
And curse thy star, and early drudge and late; 
Withouten that would come a heavier bale, 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. 
In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, 
With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round, 
A most enchanting wizard did abide, 
Than whom a fiend more fell is no where found. 
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground; 
And there a season atween June and May, 
Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrown'd, 
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, 
No living wight could work, ne cared even for play. 
Was nought around but images of rest: 
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between; 
And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest, 
From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green, 
Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
Meantime, unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd, 
And hurled every where their waters sheen; 
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade, 
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. 
Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills 
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, 
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills, 
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale: 
And, now and then, sweet Philomel would wail, 
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep, 
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; 
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep; 
Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. 
Full in the passage of the vale, above, 
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood; 
Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move, 
As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood: 
And up the hills, on either side, a wood 
Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro, 
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; 
And where this valley winded out, below, 
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. 
A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
For ever flushing round a summer-sky: 
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly 
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, 
And the calm pleasures always hover'd nigh; 
But whate'er smack'd of noyance, or unrest, 
Was far, far off expell'd from this delicious nest. 
The landscape such, inspiring perfect ease, 
Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight) 
Close-hid his castle mid embowering trees, 
That half shut out the beams of Ph?bus bright, 
And made a kind of checker'd day and night; 
Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate, 
Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight 
Was placed; and to his lute, of cruel fate 
And labour harsh, complain'd, lamenting man's estate. 
Thither continual pilgrims crowded still, 
From all the roads of earth that pass there by: 
For, as they chaunced to breathe on neighbouring hill, 
The freshness of this valley smote their eye, 
And drew them ever and anon more nigh; 
Till clustering round the enchanter false they hung, 
Ymolten with his syren melody; 
While o'er the enfeebling lute his hand he flung, 
And to the trembling chords these tempting verses sung; 
`Behold! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold! 
See all, but man, with unearn'd pleasure gay: 
See her bright robes the butterfly unfold, 
Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May! 
What youthful bride can equal her array? 
Who can with her for easy pleasure vie? 
From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray, 
From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly, 
Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. 
`Behold the merry minstrels of the morn, 
The swarming songsters of the careless grove, 
Ten thousand throats! that, from the flowering thorn, 
Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love, 
Such grateful kindly raptures them emove: 
They neither plough, nor sow; ne, fit for flail, 
E'er to the barn the nodden sheaves they drove; 
Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, 
Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the vale. 
`Outcast of nature, man! the wretched thrall 
Of bitter dropping sweat, of sweltry pain, 
Of cares that eat away the heart with gall, 
And of the vices, an inhuman train, 
That all proceed from savage thirst of gain: 
For when hard-hearted interest first began 
To poison earth, Astræa left the plain; 
Guile, violence, and murder seized on man, 
And, for soft milky streams, with blood the rivers ran. 
`Come, ye, who still the cumbro