« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
Compassionates my present case,
Asks of your health, and hears with joy,
How You your growing strength employ
In rural cares and exercise ;
And kind congratulations rise,
When on my favorite theme I dwell,
And Beauchamp's rising virtues tell.
Fondly the vanity I share,
And recollect my pleasing care,
That, with parental aid combin'd,
Founded the structure of his mind:
So boastful builders call their own
Works, where they laid the first rude stone.
The storm subsides, the mount I gain,
Thence dart my eyes across the plain.
Full swelling to the sight, I found
First holy Paul's majestic round,
Thro' wide Augusta's smoak; and now
Rose lofty Windsor's tow'red brow;
Here glitter streams of vulgar names,
There slowly winds imperial Thames,
On his green banks, in level line,
Here spacious Hampton's turrets shine,
Whose windows kindling at the ray
Of Sol, beam back redoubled day;
Towns, villages, and pointed spires,
And smoak thick-wreath'd from cottage-fires,
And planted villas, intervene,
To grace the sweetly-vary'd scene.
O'er all my eyes transported range,
With every glance the visions change,
Till, drawn by beauties nearer home,
Along the lovely park I roam,
Now skim the walk, descend the glade,
Then plunge into the deepest shade.
Here flourish sweets in mingled bloom,
There (worthy ancient Greece or Rome)
Fair temples, opening to the sight,
Surprise each turn with new delight:
In pleasure lost, I wish to gaze
At once a thousand different ways,
Awful or pleasing, every part
Expands the soul, or glads the heart,
Great, open, liberal, unconfin'd,
Just emblem of its master's mind,
Who knows unequall'd state to shew,
Yet, gracious, stoops to all below.
Beneath a hill, whose hoary brow Ne'er felt the wound of scythe or plow, (Along whose wild and heathy side Britannia's naval heroes ride,
When they, with colors wide display'd,
That proud Iberia's sons upbraid,
In tawny troop, from India's shore,
Guard in rough pomp their captive ore)
Mid circling waters lies an isle,
Whose verdant shores reflected smile
With Flora's painted hues; above,
Soft-bosom'd in a shady grove,
A dome, but half reveal'd to sight,
Chequers the boughs with Parian white.
If chance from hence at evening fair
The rising song soft steals on air,
Which to the well-according strings
The skilful voice sweet warbling sings,
The passing swain suspended stands,
And, wondering, lifts to heaven his hands,
Doubts if beneath some leafy spray
Soft Philomela pours her lay,
Or some blest spirit from above
Enchants with harmony the grove;
Nor guesses that the tuneful art,
Which awes and charms his simple heart,
Is Her's, whose bounty loves to bless
Sad sickening want, and lone distress,
And Her's the sweet enchanting song,
To whom the listening groves belong,
And all, that Her Newcastle's art
In boundless fondness can impart,
Each level walk, each shelving glade,
Whate'er employs the laborer's spade,
Whate'er rewards his patient toil,
And makes the barren desert smile.
This isle in tempting prospect stands,
Thither I stretch my eyes and hands,
Eager the farther shore to gain,
But stretch my hands and eyes in vain.
For hark! the threat'ning winds arise,
Again with clouds obscure the skies,
And tell my baffled hopes, that this
Is an inchanted isle of bliss,
Now in near prospect blooming fair,
And now involv'd in black despair!
My chaise regain'd, I cross the plain, When lo! the sun beams forth again. Hope, gay impostor, points the way, Where, near the road, fair Esher lay; And who at Esher would not stay? I turn'd. Retiring from the town, The noble Owner just came down. I saw the gate behind him close, Then murmur'd at this short repose From cares for Britain's safety shewn, Grudg'd his repose, who guards my own!
I now pursue my former way, And with my journey ends this day Of hope, and fear, and pain, and pleasure, Of all my other days the measure!
Your's a more even tenor know, And scarce perceive an ebb or flow. The cause is plain. To fortune's gale You, cautious, never spread a sail; Safe in your port, content at home, You ne'er for painful pleasure roam,
And think it folly, if not sin,
One night to sojourn at an inn.
Nay, when the Atlas of our state
Throws off for You a nation's weight,
In courtly terms your ear to greet,
And cast himself beneath your feet,
You (like Egeria) in your grott
Or seek he must, or finds You not.
More cautious still, e'en when retir'd,
By wits nor censur'd, nor admir'd,
You say, (tho' every art your friend)
You dare to no one art pretend.
Your fear is just. Each state and nation
Assigns to woman reputation,
While man asserts his wider claim,
Jealous proprietor of fame.
Yet sure, without offence, You may
On nature's open leaf display
Your harmless unambitious skill,
To sink a grott, or slope a hill,
A dell with flowers adorn, or lead
A winding rill along the mead,
Or bid opposing trees be join'd,
In hospitable league intwin'd,
Without their leave, whose madness dares
Rouze human states to cruel wars;
Or, if the Bourbon of the air
Against your feather'd folk declare
Fell war, betake you to th' alliance.