Yes, here alone did highest Heaven ordain
The lasting magazine of charms,
Whatever wins, whatever warms,

Whatever fancy seeks to share,
The great, the various, and the fair,
For ever should remain !

Her impulse nothing may restrain—
Or whence the joy mid columns, tow'rs,
Midst all the city's artful trim,

To rear some breathless vapid flow'rs,
Or shrubs fuliginously grim?
From rooms of silken foliage vain,
To trace the dun far-distant grove,
Where, smit with undissembled pain,
The woodlark mourns her absent love,
Borne to the dusty town from native air,

To mimic rural life, and soothe some vapour'd fair?

But how must faithless Art prevail,
Should all who taste our joy sincere,
To virtue, truth, or science, dear,
Forego a court's alluring pale,

For dimpled brook and leafy grove,

For that rich luxury of thought they love!

Ah, no! from these the public sphere requires

Example for its giddy bands;

From these impartial Heaven demands

To spread the flame itself inspires;

To sift Opinion's mingled mass,

Impress a nation's taste, and bid the sterling pass.

Happy, thrice happy they,

Whose graceful deeds have exemplary shone

Round the gay precincts of a throne

With mild effective beams!
Who bands of fair ideas bring,
By solemn grot or shady spring,
To join their pleasing dreams!

Theirs is the rural bliss without alloy;

They only that deserve, enjoy.

What though nor fabled Dryad haunt their grove,

Nor Naiad near their fountains rove?

Yet all embodied to the mental sight,
A train of smiling Virtues bright
Shall there the wise retreat allow,

[brow.

Shall twine triumphant palms to deck the wanderer's

And though, by faithless friends alarm'd,

Art have with Nature wag'd presumptuous war,
By Seymour's winning influence charm'd,
In whom their gifts united shine,

No longer shall their councils jar.
'Tis her's to mediate the peace :

Near Percy Lodge, with awe-struck mien,
The rebel seeks her lawful queen.
And havoc and contention cease.
I see the rival powers combine,

And aid each other's fair design;

Nature exalt the mound where Art shall build, Art shape the gay alcove, while Nature paints the field.

Begin, ye songsters of the grove!
O warble forth your noblest lay;
Where Somerset vouchsafes to rove,
Ye leverets! freely sport and play.
-Peace to the strepent horn!

Let no harsh dissonance disturb the morn;

No sounds inelegant and rude
Her sacred solitudes profane,
Unless her candour not exclude

The lowly shepherd's votive strain,

Who tunes his reed amidst his rural cheer,
Fearful, yet not averse, that Somerset should hear.

TO INDOLENCE, 1750.

АH! why for ever on the wing
Persists my wearied soul to roam?
Why, ever cheated, strives to bring
Or pleasure or contentment home?

Thus the poor bird that draws his name
From Paradise's honour'd groves,
Careless fatigues his little frame,

Nor finds the resting place he loves.

Lo! on the rural mossy bed

My limbs with careless ease reclin'd;
Ah, gentle Sloth! indulgent spread
The same soft bandage o'er my mind.

For why should lingering thought invade,
Yet every worldly prospect cloy?
Lend me, soft Sloth! thy friendly aid,
And give me peace, debar'd of joy.

Lov'st thou yon calm and silent flood,
That never ebbs, that never flows,
Protected by the circling wood

From each tempestuous wind that blows?

An altar on its bank shall rise,

Where oft thy votary shall be found; What time pale Autumn lulls the skies, And sickening verdure fades around.

Ye busy race! ye factious train!

That haunt Ambition's guilty shrine,
No more perplex the world in vain,
But offer here your vows with mine.

And thou, puissant queen! be kind :
If e'er I shar'd thy balmy pow'r,
If e'er I sway'd my active mind

To weave for thee the rural bow'r;

Dissolve in sleep each anxious care,
Each unavailing sigh remove;

And only let me wake to share
The sweets of friendship and of love.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

SOMEWHAT TOO SOLICITOUS ABOUT HER MANNER OF

EXPRESSION.

SURVEY, my fair! that lucid stream

Adown the smiling valley stray;
Would Art attempt, or Fancy dream,
To regulate its winding way?

So pleas'd I view thy shining hair
In loose dishevell'd ringlets flow;
Not all thy art, not all thy care,

Can there one single grace bestow.

Survey again that verdant hill,

With native plants enamell'd o'er; Say, can the painter's utmost skill Instruct one flower to please us more?

As vain it were, with artful dye,

To change the bloom thy cheeks disclose ; And, oh! may Laura, ere she try, With fresh vermilion paint the rose.

Hark how the woodlark's tuneful throat
Can every studied grace excel;
Let Art constrain the rambling note,
And will she, Laura, please so well?

Oh! ever keep thy native ease,

By no pedantic law confin'd:

For Laura's voice is form'd to please,
So Laura's words be not unkind.