Not Neptune's felf from all his floods receives
A wealthier tribute than to thine he gives.
No feas fo rich, fo full no ftreams appear,
No lake fo gentle, and no fpring fo clear.
Not fabled Po more fwells the Poet's lays,
While thro' the skies his fhining current strays,
Than thine, which vifits Windfor's fam'd abodes,
To grace the manfion of our earthly Gods:
Nor all his stars a brighter luftre fhow,

Than the fair nymphs that gild thy fhore below:
Here Jove himself, fubdu'd by beauty ftill,
Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.

Happy the man whom this bright court approves, His fov'reign favours, and his countrey loves; Happy next him who to thefe fhades retires, Whom nature charms, and whom the Mufe inspires, Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please, Succeffive ftudy, exercife, and ease.

He gathers health from herbs the foreft yields,
And of their fragrant phyfick spoils the fields:
With chymic art exalts the min'ral pow'rs,
And draws the aromatick fouls of flow'rs.
Now marks the courfe of rolling orbs on high;
O'er figur'd worlds now travels with his eye;

Of

Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store,
Confults the dead, and lives paft ages o'er.
Or wand'ring thoughtful in the filent wood,
Attends the duties of the wife and good,
T'obferve a mean, be to himself a friend,
To follow nature, and regard his end.
Or looks on heav'n with more than mortal eyes,
Bids his free foul expatiate in the skies,
Amidft her kindred stars familiar roam,
Survey the region, and confefs her home!
Such was the life great Scipio once admir'd,
Thus Atticus, and Trumbal thus retir'd.

Ye facred Nine! that all my foul poffefs,
Whofe raptures fire me, and whose visions bless,
Bear me, oh bear me to fequefter'd scenes,
Of bowry mazes, and furrounding greens;

To Thames's banks which fragrant breezes fill,
Or where ye Mufes fport on Cooper's hill.
(On Cooper's hill eternal wreaths fhall grow,
While lafts the mountain, or while Thames fhall flow)
I feem thro' confecrated walks to rove,

And hear foft mufick dye along the grove;

Led by the found I roam from fhade to fhade,
By god-like poets venerable made:

Here

Here his firft lays majestick Denham sung;

There the laft numbers flow'd from *Cowley's tongue.

O early loft! what tears the river shed,

When the fad pomp along his banks was led?
His drooping fwans on ev'ry note expire,

And on his willows hung each Mufe's lyre.
Since fate relentless stopp'd their heav'nly voice,
No more the forefts ring, or groves rejoice;
Who now fhall charm the fhades where Cowley ftrung
His living harp, and lofty Denham fung?

But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings!
Are these reviv'd? or is it Granville fings?

'Tis yours, my Lord, to blefs our foft retreats,
And call the Mufes to their ancient feats,
To paint anew the flow'ry fylvan fcenes,
To crown the forefts with immortal greens,
Make Windfor-hills in lofty numbers rise,

And lift her turrets nearer to the skies;

To fing thofe honours you deserve to wear,

And add new luftre to her filver ftar.

Mr. Cowley died at Chertsey on the borders of the forest, and was from thence convey'd to Westminster.

Here

Here noble * Surrey felt the facred rage, Surrey, the Granville of a former age: Matchlefs his pen, victorious was his lance; Bold in the lifts, and graceful in the dance: In the fame fliades the Cupids tun'd his lyre, To the fame notes, of love, and foft defire: Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow, Then fill'd the groves, as heav'nly Myra now.

Oh would't thou fing what heroes Windfor bore,
What Kings firft breath'd upon her winding shore,
Or raise old warriors whofe ador'd remains
In weeping vaults her hallow'd earth contains!
With Edward's acts adorn the fhining page,
Stretch his long triumphs down thro' ev'ry age,
Draw Monarchs chain'd, and Creffi's glorious field,
The lilies blazing on the regal fhield.

Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colours fall,
And leave inanimate the naked wall;

Still in thy fong fhould vanquish'd France appear,

And bleed for ever under Britain's spear.

Henry Howard E. of Surrey, one of the first refiners of the English Poetry; who flourished in the time of Henry VIIL Edward III. born here.

Let

Let fofter trains ill-fated * Henry mourn, And palms eternal flourish round his urn. Here o'er the Martyr-king the marble weeps, And faft befide him, once-fear'd † Edward fleeps: Whom not th' extended Albion could contain, From old Belerium to the northern main,

The grave unites; where ev'n the great find reft, And blended lie th' oppreffor and th' oppreft!

Make facred Charles's tomb for ever known, (Obscure the place, and uninscrib'd the stone,) Oh fact accurft! what tears has Albion fhed,

Heav'ns what new wounds! and how her old have [bled?

She faw her fons with purple deaths expire,"
Her facred domes involv'd in rolling fire.
A dreadful series of inteftine wars,
Inglorious triumphs, and difhoneft fcars.

At length great Anna faid-Let difcord cease! She faid, the world obey'd, and all was peace! In that bleft moment, from his oozy bed

Old father Thames advanc'd his rev'rend head; His treffes dropp'd with dews, and o'er the stream His fhining horns diffus'd a golden gleam: