Some born to fhun the folemn ftrife; To foothe the certain ills of life; Call forth refreshing fhades, and decorate repose. From plains and woodlands; from the view Smit with the glare of rank and place, And emulous of nature's pow'r, And warp'd the very foul 1 Awhile her magic ftrikes the novel eye, Where Where all is wonderous, all is bright: By faphire lakes, thro' em'rald groves. Th' habitual scene of hill and dale, But foon the pageant fades away! Of native groves, and wonted streams, Then hither oft ye fenators retire, With nature here high converse hold; VOL. I. Beneath Shall fee fair truth, immortal maid, Honour, and moral beauty fhine With more attractive charms, with radiance more divine. Yes, here alone did highest heav'n ordain Her impulfe nothing may reftrainOr whence the joy 'mid columns, tow'rs, 'Midft all the city's artful trim, To rear some breathlefs vapid flow'rs, Or fhrubs fuliginoufly grim: From rooms of filken foliage vain, To trace the dun far diftant grove, Where fmit with undiffembled pain, The wood-lark mourns her abfent love, Borne to the dufty town from native air, To mimic rural life, and foothe some vapour'd fair. But how must faithless art prevail, For For that rich luxury of thought they love! From these impartial heav'n demands To fift opinion's mingled mass, Impress a nation's taste, and bid the sterling pass. Happy, thrice happy they, Whofe graceful deeds have exemplary fhone Who bands of fair ideas bring, To join their pleasing dreams! What tho' nor fabled dryad haunt their grove, A train of smiling virtues bright [brow. Shall there the wife retreat allow, Shall twine triumphant palms to deck the wanderer's ! And though by faithless friends alarm'd, In whom their gifts united fhine, No longer shall their counfels jar. Near PERCY-lodge, with awe-ftruck mien, Nature exalt the mound where art shall build; Art shape the gay alcove, while nature paints the fie Begin, ye songsters of the grove ! your Where SOMERSET Vouchfafes to rove -Peace to the ftrepent horn! Let no harfh diffonance difturb the morn, Her facred folitudes profane! Unless her candour not exclude The lowly fhepherd's votive strain, Who tunes his reed amidst his rural chear, Fearful, yet not averfe, that SOMERSET fhould hear. ODE |