Whose wide affections can embrace
The whole extent of human race;
Whom Virtue and her friends approve;
Whom Cambridge and the Muses love.

TO THE

REV. DR. WALWYN,

Prebendary of Canterbury.

ON HIS

INTENDING TO CUT DOWN A GROVE TO ENLARGE HIS PROSPECT.

BY MISS CARTER.

In plaintive sounds, that tun'd to woe

The sadly-sighing breeze,

A weeping HAMADRYAD mourn'd
Her fate-devoted trees.

Ah! stop thy sacrilegious hand,

Nor violate the shade,

Where Nature form'd a silent haunt

For Contemplation's aid.

Canst thou, the son of Science, bred

Where learned Isis flows,

Forget that, nurs'd in shelt'ring groves,
The Grecian genius rose?

Within the plantane's spreading shade,
Immortal PLATO taught;

And fair LYCEUM form'd the depth
Of ARISTOTLE's thought.

To Latian groves reflect thy views,
And bless the Tuscan gloom;
Where eloquence deplor'd the fate
Of Liberty and Rome.

Retir'd beneath the beechen shade,
From each inspiring bough

The Muses wove th' unfading wreaths
That circled VIRGIL'S brow.

Reflect before the fatal axe

My threaten'd doom has wrought; Nor sacrifice to sensual taste

The nobler growth of thought.

Not all the glowing fruits that blush
On India's sunny coast,

Can recompense thee for the worth

Of one idea lost.

My shade a produce may supply,

Unknown to solar fire;

And what excludes APOLLO's rays,
Shall harmonize his lyre.

.

ΤΟ

A GENTLE MAN,

ON HIS PITCHING A TENT IN HIS GARDEN.

BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, ESQ:

АH friend, forbear, nor fright the fields
With hostile scenes of imag'd war;
Content still roves the blooming wilds,

And sheds her mildest influence there :

Ah! drive not the sweet wand'rer from her seat, Nor with rude arts profane her latest best retreat.

Are there not bowers, and sylvan scenes,
By Nature's kind luxuriance wove?
Has Romely lost the living greens

Which erst adorn'd her artless grove?

Where through each hallow'd haunt the poet stray'd, And met the willing Muse, and peopled every shade.

But now no bards thy woods among,
Shall wait th' inspiring Muse's call;
For though to mirth and festal song
Thy choice devotes the woven wall,

Yet what avails that all be peace within,

If horrors guard the gate, and scare us from the scene?

'Tis true of old the patriarch spread

His happier tents which knew not war, And chang'd at will the trampled mead For fresher greens and purer air; But long has man forgot such simple ways, Truth unsuspecting harm!—the dream of ancient days.

Ev'n he, cut off from human kind,

(Thy neighb'ring wretch) the child of Care, Who, to his native mines confin'd,

Nor sees the sun, nor breathes the air,

But 'midst the damps and darkness of earth's womb Drags out laborious life, and scarcely dreads the tomb;

Ev'n he, should some indulgent chance
Transport him to thy sylvan reign,

Would eye the floating veil askance,
And hide him in his caves again,

While dire presage in every breeze that blows Hears shrieks and clashing arms, and all Germania's

woes.

And doubt not thy polluted taste
A sudden vengeance shall pursue;
Each fairy form we whilom trac'd

Along the morn or evening dew,

Nymph, Satyr, Faun, shall vindicate their grove, Robb'd of its genuine charms, and hospitable Jove.

I see, all-arm'd with dews unblest,

Keen frosts, and noisome vapours drear,