Where towering oaks their growing honors rear,
And future navies on thy shores appear,
Not Neptune's self from all her streams receives
A wealthier tribute than to thine he gives.
No seas so rich, so gay no banks appear,
No lake so gentle, and no spring so clear;
Nor Po so swells the fabling poet's lays,
While led along the skies his current strays,
-As thine, which visits Windsor's famed abodes,
To grace the mansion of our earthly gods;
Nor all his stars above a lustre show,
Like the bright beauties on thy banks below;
Where Jove, subdued by mortal passion still,
Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.

Happy the man whom this bright court approves, His 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.
Bids his free soul expatiate in the skies,
Amid her kindred stars familiar roam,
Survey the region, and confess her home!
Such was the life great Scipio once admired,
Thus Atticus and Trumbal thus retired.

Ye sacred Nipe! 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 sung ?
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,
To crown the forests with immortal greens,
Make Windsor hills in lofty numbers rise,
And lift her turrets nearer to the skies
To sing those honors you deserve to wear,
And add new lustre to her silver star.
Here noble Surrey felt the sacred rage,
Surrey-the Granville of a former age:
Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance,
Bold in the lists, and graceful in the dance:
In the same shades the Cupids tuned his lyre,
To the same notes, of love and soft desire:
Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow,
Then fill'd the groves, as heavenly Mira now.

Oh! wouldst thou sing what heroes Windsor borë,
What kings first breathed upon her winding shore,
Or raise old warriors, whose adored remains
In weeping vaults her hallow'd earth contains!
With Edward's acts adorn the shining page,
Stretch his long triumphs down through every age.
Draw monarchs chain'd, and Cressy's glorious field,
The lilies blazing on the regal shield:

Then from her roofs when Verrio's colors fall,
And leave inanimate the naked wall,

Still in thy song should vanquish'd France appear,
And bleed for ever under Britain's spear.

Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn, And palms eternal flourish round his urn. Here o'er the martyr king the marble weeps, And fast, beside him, once-fear'd Edward sleeps: Whom not th' extended Albion could contain, From old Belerium to the northern main,

The grave unites; where ev'n the great find rest,
And blended lie th' oppressor and th' oppress'd!

Make sacred Charles's tomb for ever known, (Obscure the place, and uninscribed the stone :)** Oh fact accursed! what tears has Albion shed! Heavens, what new wounds!-and how her old have bled!

She saw her sons with purple deaths expire,
Her sacred domes involved in rolling fire,
A dreadful series of intestine wars,
Inglorious triumphs, and dishonest scars.

At length great Anna said-" Let discord cease !”
She said, the world obey'd, and all was peace!

In that blest moment, from his oozy bed
Old father Thames advanced his reverend head;
His tresses dropp'd with dews, and o'er the stream
His shining horns diffused a golden gleam :
Graved on his urn appear'd the moon, that guides
His swelling waters and alternate tides;
The figured streams in waves of silver roll'd,
And on her banks Augusta rose in gold;
Around his throne the sea-born brothers stood,
Who swell'd with tributary urns his flood!
First, the famed authors of his ancient name,
The winding Isis and the fruitful Thame :
The Kennet swift, for silver eels renown'd;
The Loddon slow, with verdant alders crown'd;
Cole, whose dark streams his flowery islands lave
And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave:
The blue, transparent Vandalis appears;
The gulfy Lee his sedgy tresses rears;
And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood;
And silent Darent, stain'd with Danish blood.

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!