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' ON HIS FIRST ARRIVAL AT THE

LEASOWES, 1754,

BY DODSLEY. ‘How shall I fix my wandering eye? where find The source of this enchantment? Dwelis it in The woods ? or waves there not a magic wand O'er the translucent waters? Sure, unseen, Some favouring power directs the happy lines That sketch these beauties; swells the rising hills, And scoops the dales to Nature's finest forms, Vague, undetermin’d, infinite; untaught By line or compass, yet supremely fair !' So spake Philenor, as with raptur'd gaze He travers'd Damon's farm: from distant plains He sought his friend's, abode; nor had the fame Of that new-form'd Arcadia reach'd his ear.

And thus the swain, as o’er each hill and dale, Through lawn or thicket, he pursued his way :• What is it gilds the verdure of these meads With hues more bright than Fancy paints the flowers Of Paradise? Wbat naiad's guiding hand Leads, through the broider'd vale, these lucid rills, That, murmuring as they flow, bear melody Along their banks, and through the vocal shades Improve the music of the woodland choir? What pensive dryad rais'd yon solemn grove, Where minds contemplative at close of day Retiring, muse o'er Nature's various works, Her wonders venerate, or her sweets enjoy ? What room for doubt? some rural deity, Presiding, scatters o'er the’ unequal lawns,

In beauteous wildness, yon fair-spreading trees,
And, mingling woods and waters, hills and dales,
And herds and bleating flocks, domestic fowl,
And those that swim the lake, sees rising round
More pleasing landscapes than in Tempe's vale
Penéus water'd. Yes, some silvan god
Spreads wide the varied prospect,waves the woods,
Lifts the proud hills, and clears the shining lakes,
While, from the congregated waters pour'd,
The bursting torrent tumbles down the steep
In foaming fury; fierce, irregular,
Wild, interrupted, cross'd with rocks and roots
And interwoven trees; till, soon absorb’d,
An opening cavern all its rage entombs.
So vanish human glories! such the pomp
Of swelling warriors, of ambitious kings,
Who fret and strut their hour upon the stage
Of busy life, and then are heard no more!

• Yes, 'tis enchantment all-And see! the spells,
The powerful incantations, magic verse,
Inscrib'd on every tree, alcove, or urn.-
Spells !-Incantations !-Ah! my tuneful Friend!
Thine are the numbers, thine the wondrous work !---
Yes, great magician! now I read thee right,
And lightly weigh all sorcery but thine.
No naiad's leading step conducts the rill,
Nor silvan god presiding skirts the lawn
In beauteous wildness, with fair-spreading trees,
Nor magic wand has circumscrib'd the scene:
'Tis thine own taste, thy genius that presides,
Nor needs there other deity, nor needs
More potent spells than they.'--No more the swain,
For, lo! his Damon, o'er the tufted lawn
Advancing, leads him to the social dome.

TO

MR. ROBERT DODSLEY,
ON THE DEATH OF MR. SHENSTONE.

* Thee, Shepherd ! thee the woods and desert caves,
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes, mourn.'

MILT.

'Tis past, my friend! the transient scene is clos'd! The fairy pile, the enchanted vision, rais'd By Damon's magic skill, is lost in air! [main ;

What though the lawns and pendent woods reEach tinkling stream, each rushing cataract, With lapse incessant echoes through the dale? Yet what avails the lifeless landscape now? The charni's dissolv'd; the genius of the wood, Alas! is flown—for Damon is no more.

As when from fair Lycæum, crown'd with pines, Or Mänalus, with leaves autumnal strew'd, The tuneful Pan retires, the vocal hills Resound no more, and all Arcadia mourns.

Yet here we fondly dream'd of lasting joys; Here we had hop'd, from noisy throngs retird, To drink large draughts of Friendship’s cordial

stream, In sweet oblivion wrapt, by Damon's verse, And social converse, many a summer's day.

Romantic wish! in vain frail mortals trace The' imperfect sketch of human bliss—Whilst yet The' enraptur'd sire his well-plann'd structure views Majestic rising midst his infant groves,

Sees the dark laurel spread its glossy shade,
Its languid bloom the purple lilac blend,
Or pale laburnum drop its pensile chain,
Death spreads the fatal shaft, and bids his heir
Transplant the eypress round his father's tomb.

Oh! teach me then, like you, my friend! to raise
To moral truths my grovelling song; for, ah!
Too long, by lawless Fancy led astray,
Of nymphs and groves I've dream'd, and dancing

fauns, Or naïd leaning o'er her tinkling urn. Oh! could I learn to sanctify my strains With hymns, like those by tuneful Meyrick sunga Or rather catch the melancholy sounds From Warton's reed, or Mason's lyre-to paint The sudden gloom that damps iny soulBut see! Melpomene herself has snatch'd the pipe With which sad Lyttleton his Lucia mourn'd, And plaintive cries, My Shenstone is no more!'

R. GRAVES.

VERSES
WRITTEN IN THE GARDENS OF
WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ.

NEAR BIRMINGHAM, 1756.

Ille terrarum mihi præter omnes
Angulus rideti.'

HOR.

Would you these lov'd recesses trace,
And view fair Nature's modest face?
See her in every field-flower bloom,
O’er every thicket shed perfume?
By verdant groves, and vocal hills,
By mossy grots, near purling rills,
Where'er you turn your wondering eyes,
Behold her win without disguise.

What though no pageant trifles here,
As in the glare of courts, appear?
Though rarely here be heard the name
Of rank or title, power or fame?
Yet, if ingenuous be your mind,
A bliss more pure and unconfin'd
Your step attends-Draw freely nigh,
And meet the bard's benignant eye :
On him no pedant forms await,
No proud reserve shuts up his gate;
No spleen, no party views, control
That warm benevolence of soul

1 IMITATION. Whate'er the beauties others boast, That spot of ground delights me most.

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