Join hand in hand-attentive

gaze

And mark the dance's mystic maze.

Such is the waving line, (they cry)
For ever dear to Fancy's eye!

Yon stream that wanders down the dale,
The spiral wood, the winding vale,
The path which, wrought with hidden skill,
Slow twining, scales yon distant hill,
With fir invested-all combine
To recommend the waving line.
'The wreathed rod of Bacchus fair,
The ringlets of Apollo's hair,
The wand by Maïa's offspring borne,
The smooth volutes of Ammon's horn,
The structure of the Cyprian dame,
And each fair female's beauteous frame,
Show, to the pupils of Design,
The triumphs of the waving line.'

Then gaze, and mark that union sweet
Where fair convex and concave meet;
And while, quick shifting as you stray,
The vivid scenes on fancy play,
The lawn, of aspect smooth and mild,
The forest ground, grotesque and wild,
The shrub that scents the mountain gale,
The stream rough dashing down the dale,
From rock to rock in eddies toss'd,
The distant lake in which 'tis lost,
Blue hills gay beaming through the glade,
Lone urns that solemnize the shade,
Sweet interchange of all that charms
In groves, meads, dingles, rivulets, farms;
If aught the fair confusion please,
With lasting health and lasting ease,

and gold,

To him who form'd the blissful bower,
And gave thy life one tranquil hour,
Wish peace and freedom-these possess'd,
His temperate mind secures the rest.
But if thy soul such bliss despise,
Avert thy dull incurious eyes;
Go, fix them there where gems
Improved by art, their power unfold;
Go, try in courtly scenes to trace
A fairer form of Nature's face;
Go, scorn Simplicity---but know
That all our heartfelt joys below,
That all which Virtue loves to name,
Which Art consigns to lasting fame,
Which fixes Wit or Beauty's throne,
Derives its source from her alone.

ARCADIO.

TO

WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ.

In his Sickness.

BY MR. WOODHOUSE.

YE flowery plains! ye breezy woods!
Ye bowers and gay alcoves!
Ye falling streams! ye silver floods!
Ye grottos, and ye groves!

Alas! my heart feels no delight,
Though I your charms survey,
While he consumes in pain the night,
In languid sighs the day.

The flowers disclose a thousand blooms,
A thousand scents diffuse;

Yet all in vain they shed perfumes,
In vain display their hues.

Restrain, ye flowers! your thoughtless pride, Recline your gaudy heads,

And, sadly drooping, side by side,

Embrace your humid beds.

Tall oaks! that o'er the woodland shade

Your lofty summits rear,

Ah! why, in wonted charms array'd,
Expand your leaves so fair!

For, lo! the flowers as gaily smile,
As wanton waves the tree;

And though I sadly plain the while,
Yet they regard not me.

Ah! should the Fates an arrow send,
And strike the fatal wound;

Who, who shall then your sweets defend,
Or fence your beauties round?

But hark! perhaps the plumy throng
Have learn'd my plaintive tale,
And some sad dirge, or mournful song,
Comes floating in the gale.

Ah, no! they chant a sprightly strain
To sooth an amorous mate,
Unmindful of my anxious pain,
And his uncertain fate.

But see! these little murmuring rills
With fond repinings rove,
And trickle wailing down the hills,
Or weep along the grove.

Oh! mock not if, beside

your stream,

You hear me, too, repine;

Or aid with sighs your mournful theme, And fondly call him mine.

Ye envious winds! the cause display,
In whispers as ye blow;

Why did your treacherous gales convey
The poison'd shafts of woe?

Did he not plant the shady bower,
Where you so blithely meet?
The scented shrub, and fragrant flower,
To make your breezes sweet?

And must he leave the wood, the field,

The dear Arcadian reign?

Can neither verse nor virtue shield
The guardian of the plain?

Must he his tuneful breath resign,
Whom all the Muses love?
That round his brow their laurels twine,
And all his songs approve.

Preserve him, mild Omnipotence!
Our Father, King, and God!
Who clear'st the paths of life and sense,
Or stopp'st them at thy nod.

Bless'd Power! who calm'st the raging deep,

His valued health restore;

Nor let the sons of genius weep,

Nor let the good deplore.

But if thy boundless wisdom knows

His longer date an ill;

Let not my soul a wish disclose
To contradict thy will.

For happy, happy were the change,
For such a godlike mind,

To

go

where kindred spirits range, Nor leave a wish behind.

And though to share his pleasures here,
Kings might their state forego,
Yet must he feel such raptures there
As none can taste below.

VERSES LEFT ON A SEAT.

O EARTH! to his remains indulgent be,
Who so much care and cost bestow'd on thee;
Who crown'd thy barren hills with useful shade,
And cheer'd with tinkling rills each silent glade;
Here taught the day to wear a thoughtful gloom,
And there enliven'd Nature's vernal bloom.
Propitious Earth! lie lightly on his head,

And ever on his tomb thy vernal glories spread!