To Building can a mode belong Smiles he o'er fragrant Flora's bloom ? Ne'er shock him with a grotto's gloom. Nor with smooth slender columns mock His roughness in the rugged rock. Nor by trim steps hand gently down, (Like dainty dames in formal town) The nimble Naiades, who bound O'er native rocks with sprightly sound. Nor roving Dryades confine Precisely to a single line, Strait, circular, or serpentine. All forms arise at Nature's call, And use can beauty give to all. None e'er disgust the judging mind, This Lowther's noble Planter knew, Under whose safeguard smiles the corn. EPISTLE XV. TO A SWISS OFFICER, From his FRIEND AT ROME, BY JOSEPH SPENCE, M. A. FROM horrid mountains ever hid in snow, Bred up to slav'ry and dissembled pain, Unhappy man! you trifle with your chain: But should your friend with your desires comply, And sell himself to Rome and slav'ry; Epist. XV. EPISTLES CRITICAL, &c. He could not wear his trammels with that art, 161 Falsely you blame our barren rocks and plains, Happy in freedom and laborious swains : Our peasants chearful to the field repair, And can enjoy the labors of the year; Whilst yours, beneath some tree, with mournful eyes,' Sees for his haughty lord his harvest rise: Then silent sighs; but stops his slavish breath: Scarce knows the ploughshare, or the reaper's toil. In arms we breed our youth. To dart from far, And aim aright the thunder of the war: To whirl the faulchion, and direct the blow; To ward the stroke, or bear upon the foe. Early in hardships through the woods they fly, Nor feel the piercing frost, or wintry sky; Some prowling wolf or foamy boar to meet, And stretch the panting savage at their feet: Inur'd by this, they seek a nobler war, And shew an honest pride in every scar; With joy the danger and the blood partake, Whilst every wound is for their country's sake. envy not your arts, the Roman schools, Improv'd, perhaps, but to inslave your souls. May you to stone, or nerves or beauty give, And teach the soft'ning marble how to live; May you the passions in your colors trace, And work up every piece with every grace; In airs and attitudes be wond'rous wise, And know the arts to please or to surprize; In music's softest sound consume the day, Sounds that would melt the warrior's soul away: Vain efforts these, an honest fame to raise ; Your painters, and your eunuchs be your praise: Grant us more real goods, ye heav'nly Pow'rs! Virtue and arms, and liberty be ours. Weak are your offers to the free and brave; No bribe can purchase me to be a slave. Hear me, ye rocks, ye mountains, and ye plains, The happy bounds of our Helvetian swains! In thee, my Country, will I fix my seat; Nor envy the poor wretch, that wou'd be great: My life and arms I dedicate to Thee; For, know, it is my int'rest to be free. |