The gentle Air allow'd my claim,
And, more to cheer my drooping frame,
She mix'd the balm of opening flowers,
Such as the bee, with chemic powers,
From Hybla's fragrant hills inhales,
Or scents Sabæa's blooming vales:

But, ah! the nymphs that heal the pensive mind, By prescripts more refin'd,

Neglect their votary's anxious moan;

[flown.

Oh! how should they relieve?-the Muses all were

By flowery plain or woodland shades
I fondly sought the charming maids;
By woodland shades or flowery plain
I sought them, faithless maids! in vain;
When, lo! in happier hour,

I leave behind my native mead,

To range where Zeal and Friendship lead,
To visit Luxborough's honour'd bower.
Ah! foolish man! to seek the tuneful maids
On other plains, or near less verdant shades!

Scarce have my footsteps press'd the favour'd When sounds ethereal strike my ear;

At once celestial forms appear;

My fugitives are found!

The Muses here attune their lyres,

Ah! partial, with unwonted fires;

Here, hand in hand, with careless mien,
The sportive Graces trip the green.

But whilst I wander'd o'er a scene so fair,
Too well at one survey I trace

How every Muse and every Grace

Had long employ'd their care.

[ground,

Lurks not a stone enrich'd with lively stain,
Blooms not a flower amid the vernal store,
Falls not a plume on India's distant plain,
Glows not a shell on Adrian's rocky shore,

But torn, methought, from native lands or seas,
From their arrangement gain fresh power to please.

And some had bent the wildering maze,
Bedeck'd with every shrub that blows,
And some entwin'd the willing sprays,
To shield the' illustrious dame's repose;
Others had grac'd the sprightly dome,
And taught the portrait where to glow;
Others arrang'd the curious tome,
Or mid the decorated space

Assign'd the laurell'd bust a place,

And given to learning all the pomp of show;
And now from every task withdrawn,

They met and frisk'd it o'er the lawn.

Ah! woe is me, said I,

And **'s hilly circuit heard my cry:
Have I for this with labour strove,
And lavish'd all my little store
To fence for you my shady grove,
And scollop every winding shore,
And fringe with every purple rose

The sapphire stream that down my valley flows?

Ah! lovely treacherous maids!

To quit unseen my votive shades,

When pale Disease and torturing Pain
Had torn me from the breezy plain,
And to a restless couch confin❜d,

Who ne'er your wonted tasks declin'd.

She needs not your officious aid

To swell the song, or plan the shade ;
By genuine Fancy fir'd,

Her native genius guides her hand,
And while she marks the sage command,
More lovely scenes her skill shall raise,
Her lyre resound with nobler rays
Than ever you inspir'd.

Thus I my rage and grief display,
But vainly blame, and vainly mourn,
Nor will a Grace or Muse return
Till Luxborough lead the way.

RURAL ELEGANCE,

TO THE LATE DUCHESS OF SOMERSET.

WHILE orient skies restore the day,
And dew-drops catch the lucid ray,
Amid the sprightly scenes of morn
Will aught the Muse inspire?
Oh! peace to yonder clamorous horn,
That drowns the sacred lyre!

1750.

Ye rural thanes! that o'er the mossy down
Some panting timorous hare pursue,

Does nature mean your joys alone to crown?

Say, does she smooth her lawns for you?

For you does Echo bid the rocks reply,

[cry?

And, urg'd by rude constraint, resound the jovial

See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn,
The wretched swain your sports survey!
He finds his faithful fences torn,

He finds his labour'd crops a prey;

He sees his flock--no more in circles feed,

Haply beneath your ravage bleed,

And with no random curses loads the deed.

Nor yet, ye swains! conclude

That Nature smiles for you alone;

Your bounded souls, and your conceptions crude,

The proud, the selfish boast disown:

Yours be the produce of the soil;

O may it still reward your toil!

Nor ever the defenceless train

Of clinging infants ask support in vain !

But though the various harvest gild your plains,
Does the mere landscape feast your eye?
Or the warm hope of distant gains
Far other cause of glee supply?
Is not the red streak's future juice
The source of your delight profound,
Where Ariconium pours her gems profuse,

Purpling a whole horizon round?

Athirst, ye praise the limpid stream, 'tis true;
But though, the pebbled shores among,

It mimic no unpleasing song,

The limpid fountain murmurs not for you.

Unpleas'd, ye see the thickets bloom,

Unpleas'd, the Spring her flowery robe resume;

Unmov'd, the mountains airy pile,

The dappled mead without a smile.

O let a rural conscious Muse,

For well she knows, your froward sense accuse : Forth to the solemn oak you bring the square,

And span the massy trunk before you cry--'Tis fair.

Nor yet, ye learn'd! nor yet, ye courtly train!
If haply from your haunts ye stray

To waste with us a summer's day,
Exclude the taste of every swain,
Nor our untutor'd sense disdain:
'Tis Nature only gives exclusive right
To relish her supreme delight;

She, where she pleases, kind or coy,

Who furnishes the scene, and forms us to enjoy.

Then hither bring the fair ingenuous mind,

By her auspicious aid refin'd.

Lo! not an hedge-row hawthorn blows,
Or humble harebell paints the plain,
Or valley winds, or fountain flows,
Or purple heath is ting'd in vain :

For such the rivers dash the foaming tides,
The mountain swells, the dale subsides;

Ev'n thriftless furze detains their wandering sight,

And the rough barren rock grows pregnant with

With what suspicious fearful care

The sordid wretch secures his claim,

If haply some luxurious heir

[delight.

Should alienate the fields that wear his name!

What scruples, lest some future birth

Should litigate a span of earth!

[prose,

Bonds, contracts, feoffments, names unmeet for

The towering Muse endures not to disclose:

VOL. XXIV.