Blooms not a flower amid the vernal store, Falls not a plume on India's distant plain, Glows not a shell on Adria'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 entwined the willing sprays,
To shield th' illustrious dame's repose;
Others had graced the sprightly dome,

And taught the portrait where to glow;
Others arranged 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And now from every task withdrawn,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 confined,

Who ne'er your wonted tasks declined.

78

90

100

She needs not your officious aid

To swell the song, or plan the shade;
By genuine Fancy fired,

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 lays
Than ever you inspired.

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.

109

120

RURAL ELEGANCE.

AN ODE TO THE LATE DUCHESS OF SOMERSET. 1750.

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!

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 ? you does Echo bid the rocks reply, And, urged by rude constraint, resound the jovial cry?

For

10

See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn,
The wretched swain your sport 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.

Unpleased ye see the thickets bloom,

Unpleased the spring her flowery robe resume;
Unmoved the mountain's airy pile,

The dappled mead without a smile

13

20

30

40

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 refined.
Lo! not an hedge-row hawthorn blows,
Or humble harebell paints the plain,
Or valley winds, or fountain flows,

Or purple heath is tinged in vain :
For such the rivers dash the foaming tides,

The mountain swells, the dale subsides:

44

50

60

Even thriftless furze detains their wandering sight,

And the rough barren rock grows pregnant with delight.

With what suspicious fearful care

The sordid wretch secures his claim,

If haply some luxurious heir

Should alienate the fields that wear his name!

What scruples lest some future birth

Should litigate a span of earth!

69

Bonds, contracts, feoffments, names unmeet for prose, The towering Muse endures not to disclose;

Alas! her unreversed decree,

More comprehensive and more free,

Her lavish charter, taste, appropriates1 all we see.

Let gondolas their painted flags unfold,

And be the solemn day enroll'd,

When, to confirm his lofty plea,
In nuptial sort, with bridal gold,
grave Venetian weds the sea;
Each laughing Muse derides the vow;

The

Even Adria scorns the mock embrace,

To some lone hermit on the mountain's brow,
Allotted, from his natal hour,

With all her myrtle shores in dower.
His breast, to admiration prone,
Enjoys the smile upon her face,
Enjoys triumphant every grace,

And finds her more his own.

Fatigued with Form's oppressive laws,
When Somerset avoids the great,
When, cloy'd with merited applause,

She seeks the rural calm retreat,
Does she not praise each mossy cell,
And feel the truth my numbers tell?
When deafen'd by the loud acclaim

Which genius graced with rank obtains,
Could she not more delighted hear
Yon throstle chant the rising year?

Could she not spurn the wreaths of fame,

To crop

the primrose of the plains?

Does she not sweets in each fair valley find,

75

80

90

100

Lost to the sons of power, unknown to half mankind?

''Appropriates:' hence a well-known passage in Emerson,- Miller owns this field-Lock yonder other-I own the landscape.'