Which, born beneath a milder fky,
Shrink at a wintry blaft, and die.
I ne'er behold without a fmile
The venerable Gothic pile,
Which in our fathers' wiser age
Was fhelter'd from the tempeft's rage,
Stand to the dreary north expos'd,
Within a Chinese fence inclos'd.
For me, each leaden God may reign
In quiet o'er his old domain;
Their claim is good by Poet's laws,
And Poets muft fupport their cause.
But when old Neptune's fifh-tail'd train
Of Tritons, haunts an upland plain;
When Dian seems to urge the chace,
In a fnug garden's narrow space;
When Mars, with infult rude, invades
The virgin Mufes' peaceful fhades;
With light'ning arm'd, when angry Jove
Scares the poor tenants of the grove,
I cannot blindly league with those,
Who thus the Poet's creed oppofe.
To Nature, in my earliest youth,
I vow'd my conftancy and truth;
When in her Hardwicke's much-lov'd fhade
Enamour'd of her charms I ftray'd:
* The Seat of P. Powys, Efq. in Oxford hire.
And as I rov'd the woods among;
Her praise in lifping numbers fung:
Nor will I now refign my heart,
A captive to her rival art.
Far from the pageant scenes of pride,
She still my careless steps fhall guide,
Whether by Contemplation led,
The rich romantic wilds I tread,
Where Nature, for her pupil man,
Has fketch'd out many a noble plan;
Or whether from yon wood crown'dbrow,
I view the lovely vale below.
For when, with more than common care,
Nature had sketch'd her landscape there,
Her Conway caught the fair defign,
And foften'd ev'ry harsher line;
In pleafing lights each object plac'd,
And heighten'd all the piece with taste.
O Conway! whilst the public voice..
Applauds our Sov'reign's well weigh'd choice,
Fain would my patriot Mufe proclaim
The Statefman's and the Soldier's fame:
And bind immortal on thy brow
The civic crown and laurel bough.
But tho' unskill'd to join the choir,
Who aptly tune the courtly lyre,
* General Conway was at this time Secretary of State.
Tho' with the vaffals of thy ftate,
I never at thy levee wait,
Yet be it oft my happier lot,
To meet thee in this rural cot,
To fee thee here thy mind unbend,
And quit the Statesman for the Friend:
Whilft fmiles unbought, and void of art,
Spring genuine from the focial heart.
Happy the Mufe, which here retir'd,
By gratitude like mine infpir'd;
Dupe to no party, loves to pay,
To worth like thine, her grateful lay:
And in no venal verfe commend,
The man of Taste and Nature's friend.
ON BEING DESIRED BY LADY CAMDEN TO WRITE VERSES ON BAYHAM ABBEY, THE SEAT OF JOHN
PRATT, ESQ. NEAR TUNBRIDGE WELLS.
DON'T you (cries Clio jeering) now,
With to recall a certain vow,
Which late you rafhly made, When, in a pettish mood, you swore To leave off rhyming, and no more Invoke the Mufe's aid?
When young, by tender tales of love
You wish'd young Celia's heart to move,
And eager fnatch'd the lyre,
Help me, fome friendly Mufe, you cried,
Oh deign my artlefs hand to guide,
My fault'ring voice inspire.
And when you ftrove in verfe to raise
A trophy to your Conway's praise,
His worth, his tafte expreffing;
Again, a fuppliant to the Nine,
I faw
you bow before our shrine,
Your languid pow'rs confeffing.
But older now and wifer grown,
These vain connexions you difown,
Our dictates you disclaim, You fcorn the Mufes' idle crew, You're bid them all a last adieu, And hate a borrow'd name.
Yet when in yon fequefter'd fcene, With Contemplation's thoughtful mien, That hallow'd ground you trod,
Where cloister'd monks with zeal infpir'd Far from the bufy world retir'd,
To folitude and God.
I heard your friends the lays demand,
you take the pen in hand
Impatient to comply:
I faw you rack your lab'ring brains,
To form the dull defcriptive strains,
Whilft I food laughing by.
Fain would I fing (perplext you faid)
The lovely landscape here display'd,
|