Delicious eels-the eels of Trent. Next morn thro' wretched roads we steer, By three to Doncaster we came, SEPT. 6, 1759. EPISTLE XXIX. TO THE COUNTESS OF HERTFORD, [Afterwards Dutchess of Somerset.] AT PERCY LODGE. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR M DCCXLIV. BY JOHN DALTON, D. D. You ask me, Madam, if the Muse From Colebrook still my steps pursues: Take then (but first your patience lend) Her story thus from end to end. She that at Bath so debonair Sung gallant Damon and his Fair, To beauteous Townsend tun'd her lyre, And did, at Pelham's sight, inspire Strains, that her Lincoln's self forgives (You see the daring poet lives!) She that at Percy-Lodge so late From morn to night was us'd to prate, Almost impertinent and rude, Unbidden would herself intrude With tale, and epigram, and song, Since then, in vain I ask her aid, In vain her cruelty upbraid; The town, she says, was ne'er her choice; If there she tries to raise her voice, Her strains are to their theme unjust, Or drown'd in noise, or choak'd with dust. Her plea is good. The Muse's theme, Like the pure, bright, harmonious stream, Ne'er but in rural channels flows; Cities and bards are endless foes. Resolv'd Parnassus' top to climb, On wing's of everlasting fame; I mount my chaise, the space between, Fancy anticipates the scene, And Vanity, officious maid, Thus offers her self-pleasing aid.; • Poor Vanbrugh's plan is out of date, • And Garth but saw its rising state, • His verse with tuneful fable rung, But left its real charms unsung; But now, to my transported eyes, ' In full maturity will rise The bowers, the temples, and the groves, That Kent has plann'd, and Pelham loves.' At length, awaken'd from my dream, On a neat structure now they rest, Or, sunk beneath the tufted trees, Turn, languid, to the noontide breeze. While these I view, on humid wings How rare does pleasure stand the test! With patience now I arm my breast, And, in a moralizing vein, With thoughts like these my grief restrain : "The skies are clear, when storms are o'er, " Again smooth waves salute the shore, "Each sun but sets to rise again, " And gild with morn the dewy plain; " This hour, perhaps, hope cheats the mind, "The next, an equal joy we find." Just so; the house a shelter lends, |