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To Building can a mode belong
But gay, or delicate, or strong ?
Why search we then for orders new,
Rich in these all-comprising few,
But that the standard rules of Greece
Disdain to humor wild caprice?
They Fancy's wanton freaks control,
In every part consult the whole,
Teach Art to dress, and not disguise,
Seek lasting fame, not short surprise,
And all adornings to produce
From real or from seeming use,
The place's genius to revere,
And, as he bids, the structure rear.

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,
When vary'd well, or well combin'd.

This Lowther's noble Planter knew, And kept it in his constant view. So sweetly wild his woods are strown, Nature mistakes them for her own, Yet all to proper soil and site So suited, doubly they delight. While tender plants in vales repose, Where the mild zephyr only blows, Embattled firs bleak hills adorn, Under whose safeguard smiles the corn. Who builds or plants, this rule should know, From truth and use all beauties flow.




From his



FROM horrid mountains ever hid in snow,
And barren lands, and dreary plains below;
To you, dear Sir, my best regards I send,
The weakest reasoner, as the truest friend,
Your arguments, that vainly strive to please,
Your arts, your country, and your palaces:
What signs of Roman grandeur still remain-
Much you have said; and much have said in vain.
Fine pageants these for slaves, to please the eye;
And put the neatest dress on misery!

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.


He could not wear his trammels with that art,
Or hide the noble anguish of his heart:
You'd soon repent the livery that you gave;
For, trust me, I should make an aukward slave.


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

Sees for his haughty lord his harvest rise:
Then silent sighs; but stops his slavish breath:
He silent sighs: for should he speak, 'tis death.
Hence from our field the lazy grain we call,
Too much for want, for luxury too small:
Whilst all Campania's rich inviting soil
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.
But you, soft warriors, forc'd into the field,
Or faintly strike, or impotently yield;
For well this universal truth you know,
Who fights for tyrants is his country's foe.

I 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.

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