« VorigeDoorgaan »
Where towering oaks their growing honors rear,
Happy the man whom this bright court approves, Ilis sovereign favors, and his country loves : Happy next him, who to these shades retires, Whom nature charms, and whom the Muse inspires: Whom humble joys of home-felt quiet please, Successive study, exercise, and ease. He gathers health from herbs the forest yields, And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields : With chemic arts exalts the mineral powers, And draws the aromatic souls of flowers : Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high ; O’er figured worlds now travels with his eye ; Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store, Consults the dead, and lives past ages o'er : Or, wandering thoughtful in the silent wood, Attends the duties of the wise and good, T observe a mean, be to himself a friend, To follow nature, and regard his end ;
Or looks on heaven with more than mortal eyes.
Ye sacred Nine! that all my soul possess, Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless, Bear me, oh bear me to sequester'd scenes, The bowery mazes and surrounding greens ; To Thames's banks which fragrant breezes fill, Or where ye Muses sport on Cooper's Hill. (On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths shall grow, While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall flow.) I seem through consecrated walks to rove, I hear soft music die along the grove; Led by the sound, I roam from shade to shade, By godlike poets venerable made : Here his first lays majestic Denham sung; There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's tongue. O early lost! what tears the river shed, When the sad pomp along his banks was led ! His drooping swans on every note expire, And on his willows hung each Muse's lyre.
Since fate relentless stopp?d their heavenly voice, No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice ; Who now shall charm the shades where Cowley strung His living harp, and lofty Denham syng ? But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings! Are these revived ? or is it Granville sings? 'Tis yours, my Lord, to bless our soft retreats, And call the Muses to their ancient seats ;
To paint anew the flowery sylvan scenes,
deserve to wear,
Oh! wouldst thou sing what heroes Windsor borë,
Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn,
The grave unites; where ev’n the great find resta
Make sacred Charles's tomb for ever known,
In that blest moment, from his oozy bed
High in the midst, upon his urn reclined, His sea-green mantle waving with the wind) The god appear'd: he turn’d his azure eyes Where Windsor domes and pompous turrets rise!. Then bow'd and spoke; the winds forgot to roar, And the hush'd waves glide softly to the shore.
Hail, sacred Peace ! hail, long-expected days, That Thames's glory to the stars shall raise ! Though Tyber's streams immortal Rome behold, 'Though foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold, From heaven itself though seven-fold Nilus flows, And harvests on a hundred realms bestows; These now no more shall be the Muse's themes, Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams. Let Volga's banks with iron squadrons shine, And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine; Let barbarous Ganges arm a servile train ; Be mine the blessings of a peaceful reign. No more my sons shall dye with British blood Red Iber's sands, or Ister's foaming flood : Safe on my shore, each unmolested swain Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain; The shady empire shall retain no trace Of war or blood, but in the sylvan chase ; The trumpet sleep, while cheerful horns are blown, And arms employ'd on birds and beasts alone. Behold! th' ascending villas on my side Project long shadows o'er the crystal tide. Behold! Augusta's glittering spires increase, And temples rise, the beauteous works of peace,
. I see, I see, where two fair cities bend Their ample bow, a new Whitehall ascend !