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Then might I claim, deserv'd, the laurel crown,
My verse not quite neglected or unknown;
Then should the world thy glowing pencil see
Extend the friendship of its art, to me.
BUILDING AND PLANTING.
SIR JAMES LOWTHER, BART.
WHEN stately structures Lowther grace,
Worthy the owner and the place,
Fashion will not the works direct,
But Reason be the Architect.
Ready each beauteous order stands
To execute what she commands.
The Doric grave, where weight requires,
To give his manly strength aspires;
The light Corinthian, richly gay,
Does all embellishments display;
Between them see, with matron air,
The Ionic, delicately fair!
These their abundant aid will lend
To answer every structure's end.
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.
FRIEND AT ROME.
BY JOSEPH SPENCE, M. A.
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;