Make Truth display the Charms of Fancy's Song,
And Time confess it as it rolls along,
Confess that BLANCHLAND has the Grace alone
Of AUBURN dead, of lovely AUBURN-gone.
TO BLANCHLAND's Sons, enclosed on ev'ry Side,
Far from the Commerce of the briny Tide,
No stream but DERWENT, useful, but not large,
Fitter to turn the Mill than bear the Barge,
No Stream but this, pressing the verdant Glade,
Source of domestic Comfort, not of Trade,
To them, deny'd to use the bending Sail,
Mount the steep Deck, and court the prosp'rous Gale.
To them, the soothing Thought propitious came,
That wealth wherever found, was still the same;
Whether on Indian or Peruvian Shore,
Still does it bear the Rank it always bore;
It matters not from whence it takes its Birth,
In open Day, or Bowels of the Earth.
Inspired by this, they search the Mountain's Base, Where Signs of precious Ore they hope to trace. Brought by the delving Torrent into Light, They find it scatter'd, brilliant and bright. In goes the Drift, and e'er it reaches far, They strike against a solid Rock of Spar; Onward they hack again, when lo! the Vein Displays its Lustre, and relieves their Pain. Bless'd sight, indeed! which with it daily brings Food for the Poor, the best support of Kings. Happy the Man! who first the infant Thought Nurs'd as it rose, and to Perfection brought; Whose bright Success an inland Circle gave All that it wish'd for from the distant Wave, Bid the increasing Village larger grow, And all the Sweets of in-born Traffic know.
CREWE, their Protector, Master, and liege Lord,
Whose Life was Bounty mitr'd and ador'd,
The Progress saw, attentive to the Change,
And in right Order wish'd the Whole to range;
1 Or Level, the Opening leading to the Ore, so termed by Miners.
For tho' Religion in Disguise was gone,
He knew the dire Effects of having none,
So here he plac'd it, with a purer Ray,
To light to Heav'n the true and perfect Way.
All might see it, all that would, at least,
By a most faithful Guide, a Parish Priest.
One Act like this, so good, sublimely shews,
The Texture of the Heart from whence it flows;
The Man enslaved by hoarded Treasure's Lure,
Ne'er heeds what Ills his fellow Men endure,
Supremely bless'd in Heaps of sordid Pelf,
His utmost Bounty centres in himself;
Whilst lib'ral Minds, of more extensive Sweep,
Range o'er the Land, and skim along the Deep,
In Hopes alike kind Comfort to impart
To the poor Miner's or the Sailor's1 Heart.
But ah! the Hour which flits on certain Wing,
Drew near to CREWE, with an unerring Sting;
That Hour approaching which the Grave succeeds,
Bid CREWE depart, but could not touch his Deeds;
His god-like Actions, at his mortal close,
Shone with fresh Lustre, by the Worth of those
To whom he gave his Lands in Trust, a Few
Who all the Goodness of there Lord renew,
Renew his Kindness to the Sailor Train,
And strive who most shall bless the Cottage Swain.
The Infant Village now began to share
Full rural Comfort, by their fost'ring Care.
A decent Church to piercing Torrents Proof,
Is rear'd within the Abbey's vaulting Roof;
The old and new are blended in the Pile,
To wear one Semblance of the former Style;
The broad square Steeple firmly stands erect,
Just as it was, without the least Defect.
Pure hallow'd Fabrick! fre'd from gross Abuse,
What constitutes thy Beauty is thy Use;
1 At BAMBOROUGH CASTLE every Precaution is taken, by LORD CREWE'S Trustees, for the Safety of Mariners, on that dangerous Coast.
The modest Whisp'rings of thy tinkling Bell
Are all for good, and that the Dale can tell.
Above, the Pastor's House, they neatly raise. On sloping Ground, to catch the Sun's bright Rays.
Below, the Village forms an humble Square,
Supply'd with Water pure, and purest Air.
A little off, and ranging to the West,
Are Stalls for Horse, or Cow, as suiteth best,
In one straight Line, and in one lengthen'd Row,
They meet the Ev'ning Sun's declining Glow,
Where tidy Maids and Matrons never fail
To give Attendance, with the Milking pail.
The while, a Rustic you may Chance to spy
Standing transfix'd with sheepish Love hard by,
And one, perhaps, with Looks quite debonair,
Thinking of Nothing, but th' approaching Fair;
No Love but this, possessing his fond Breast,
His Talk by Day, his Dream when gone to rest,
If press'd, indeed, he'll condescend to speak,
Of Things that only pass'd the other Week;
How COLIN gain'd the Prize1 from ev'ry Herd,
And saw his Ram to all the Rest preferr'd;
How it, compleat in Wool, in Shape, in Size,
Bore off, at once, the much contested Prize.
But if you think he does not tell you all,
Pass on, and hear it, at th' adjoining Stall.
On yonder sunny Wall the Pastor leans,
And for surrounding Politicians gleans,
News of the last and this eventful Year,
Enough to strike the most indiff'rent Ear.
And when he ceases and can find no more,
Homeward they hasten to recount it o'er,
Where NELSON, HOWE, and such-like glorious Names
Ring in the Ears of their delighted Dames.
Through a wide Arch a Cloister Fragment old, Hangs the blithe Sign where nut-brown Ale is sold,
1 To improve the Breed of Sheep a Prize is given for the best Ram.
To which the Sportsman bends his weary Way,
Himself regales and cheers the Heart of TRAY ;
Tales of much Length resound throughout the House,
How HE and TRAY out-witted all the Grouse,
How through th' uneven Wild he ne'er did flag,
And with most steady aiming fill'd his Bag;
Tells with what skill he brought the old Cock down,
And all the flutt'ring Brood mark'd for his own;
Next kill'd the widow'd Mate, when at a Loss
The Rest flew scatter'd to the broken Moss,
Where one by one, they fell an easy Prey
To his all-pow'rful Hand, and matchless TRAY.
Bless'd Days! of early Pastime and Repose,
E'er all the Storms of busy Life arose,
When I at Dawn have hasten'd to the Sport,
With Spirits gay, Youth's first and best Support,
Travell'd the live-long Day in Search of Game,
And at the very Ale-house done the same.
Let not the grave and studious under-rate
The Heart-felt Pleasures that such Sports await,
Let not the pallid Book-worm e'er deride
The happy Wand'rers of the Mountain's Side,
Where if they reap not fleeting Fame and Wealth,
Obtain Life's choicest Blessing, ruddy Health.
Ascending, devious, up the northern Steep,
Through Trees round which sweet scented Woodbines creep;
We reach a Terrace elevated high,
Where all the Valley's Beauty meets the Eye;
And as we mount, by frequent peeping back,
Through happy op'nings in the Silvan Track,
The aged Steeple seems by slow Degrees,
To hide its solemn Head among the Trees.
Sweet Contemplation and a Mind at Ease,
Will make the slightest Touch of Nature please;
But if absorb'd in Sorrow's cheerless Gloom,
Lost are her brightest Tints, and fairest Bloom;
Yet kind Religion can restore the Taste
For woodland Fragrance, and the daisy'd Waste,
Can the sad Heavings of the Breast controul,
Best of Physicians for the wounded Soul;
When, lo! the blossom'd Maze resumes its Wile,
And lures again through yonder pad-trod Stile.
The Terrace gain'd, we trace the ancient Bound
Mark'd by a hollow Moat' which went around
The Deer-stor'd Park, which daily us'd t'afford
A goodly Haunch to deck the monkish Board;
But soon we lose it at the Terrace End,
Where all Distinctions in one Level blend;
The desolating Fence to Atoms goes,
And one lone Relick it existed, shews.
Dear, placid Contemplation, heav'nly Maid,
Slowly would pass my Hours without thy Aid,
My balmy Solace, and my chief Delight,
In the low Shade, or on the Mountain's Height;
By thy Assistance I past Scenes explore,
View them in Order, as they rang'd of Yore,
Compare them with the present, and observe
Which my Admiration most deserve;
Whether wide sweeping Land-marks did more Good
Than yon contracted Fences near the Wood,
Whether the Abbey's huge and cumb'ring Walls,
Compleat with all its Cloisters and its Stalls,
Had better yet have occupied the Place
Of yonder happy smiling Village Race.-
By the first Glance, my Judgement firm is fix'd,
And with it no misgiving Doubts are mix'd.
The present, here, hath only Charms for me,
So, from the Terrace, bless the Scene I see,
Hence the struck Eye, by DERWENT'S winding Tide, Beholds th' embosom'd Lawn, the Village Pride,
Divided into Squares of fittest Kind,
To crown th' Ambition of each lowly Hind.
For ev'ry one a Garden too is made, And Prizes given to th' expertest Spade; Up to th' adjoining Road they gently rise Shewing to Passengers a Paradise.
1 The Remains of Antiquity here, are well worth the Notice of the Curious.
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