ON HIS FIRST ARRIVAL AT THE
LEASOWES, 1754.
'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? What 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.
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.'
"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 charm'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 Mænalus, 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 retir'd,
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 cypress 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 sung-
Or rather catch the melancholy sounds
From Warton's reed, or Mason's lyre-to paint
The sudden gloom that damps my soul-But see!
Melpomene herself has snatch'd the pipe
With which sad Lyttleton his Lucia mourn'd,
And plaintive cries, My Shenstone is no more!'
WRITTEN IN THE GARDENS OF
WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ.
NEAR BIRMINGHAM, 1756.
'Ille terrarum mihi præter omnes
Angulus ridet '.'
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
Whate'er the beauties others boast,
That spot of ground delights me most.
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