My lovely materials were many and great!
(For fometimes, you know, I'm oblig'd to create ;)
But fay in return, my adorable dame,

To all you fee here, can you lay a just claim?

Were there no flighter parts, which you finish'd in haste,
Or left, like a friend, to give scope to my tafte?
That sweet flowing outline, that fteals from the view,
Who drew o'er the furface, did I, or did you?
The foft undulations both diftant and near,

That heave from the lawns, and yet fcarcely appear?
(So bends the ripe harvest the breezes beneath,

As if earth was in flumber, and gently took breath.)

Who thinn'd, and who group'd, and who fcatter'd those

trees?

Who bade the flopes fall with that delicate cafe,

Who caft them in fhade, and who plac'd them in light,
Who bade them divide, and who bade them unite?
The ridges are melted, the boundaries gone:
Obferve all these changes, and candidly own

I have cloth'd you when naked, and, when overdreft,
I have ftripp'd you again to your boddice and vest,
Conceal'd ev'ry blemish, each beauty display'd,
As Reynolds would picture some exquifite maid,
Each spirited feature would happily place,
And shed o'er the whole inexpreffible grace.

One queftion remains. Up the green of yon fteep,
Who threw the bold walk with that elegant sweep?
-There is little to fee, till the fummit we gain;
Nay, never draw back, you may climb without pain,
And, I hope will perceive how each object is caught,
And is loft in exactly the point where it ought.
That ground of your moulding is certainly fine;

But the fwell of that knoll, and those op'nings are mine.

The profpect, wherever beheld, must be good,

But has ten times its charms, when you burft from this wood, A wood of my planting. The Goddess cried, Hold!

'Tis grown very hot, and 'tis grown very cold:

She fann'd, and fhe fhudder'd, she cough'd, and she sneez'd, Inclin'd to be angry, inclin'd to be pleas'd,

Half

Half smil'd, and half pouted-then turn'd from the view, And dropp'd him a curtfey, and blushing withdrew. Yet foon recollecting her thoughts as she pass'd, "I may have my revenge on this fellow at laft; "For a lucky conjecture comes into my head,

"That whate'er he has done, and whate'er he has faid, "The world's little malice will balk his design;

"Each fault they'll call his, and each excellence mine."

INSCRIPTION

For the pedestal of the vafe in the FlowerGarden, near which Walter Clark died fuddenly, 1784; written by Mr. Mason the fame year.

Here died the village fwain, whofe hourly care
Taught this gay fcene with richeft bloom to fmile,
Fill'd with fresh fragrance thro' the varying year,
And but with life refign'd his willing toil.
To his memorial facred be the lay!

Read it, ye proud, with no faftidious eye,
But learn, with Harcourt's gratitude, to pay
The tribute due to honeft industry.

SONNET

On the death of the Rev. William Mafon, 1797, by the Rev. George Richards.

It was my hope, departed bard, when June
Had fill'd with fragrance this delightful spot,
To meet thee in the cool and filent grot,
Thy shelter from the fummer's fultry noon.
But thou art gone, and never more wilt ftray
Beneath the fragrant lime and lofty plane,
Plants by thy claffic tafte difpos'd. In vain
We place the urn, or frame the votive lay,
For all the scene recalls thee: the green bower,

The grot, the flowery tufts, and cypress glade, With forms of bard or fage, half hid in fhade, Wonder of noble minds: at length thy hour Hath come: and, leaving now the human race, Thou tak'ft among immortal bards thy place.

Ode,

To the memory of the Rev. William Mafon,
Written in the Flower-Garden, 1787.
By Sir Brooke Boothby, Bart.

These rofeate bowers, these fun-bright glades,

A Poet's eye defign'd;

Bade yon dark paths through tufted shades
In leafy labyrinths wind :

He found undrest the ruftic child
Of lovely form, neglected, wild,
And modeft weeds, well-fuited gave,
No art conceals her genuine face,
Her airy ftep, her fimple grace,
No pedant rules enslave.

Here the gay warbler fwells his throat,

Rejoicing in the spring;

Tunes to his mate the love-taught note,
Or woos on tranfient wing;

Here Queen of Nature's faireft reign,
Pleas'd Flora leads her laughing train,
Fresh from the dewy lap of May:
Or wrapp'd in fragrant flumber lies,
Or waking spreads her golden eyes,
To drink the orient ray.

With all the pride of summer crown'd,
This little Eden glows;

And memory o'er the hallow'd ground

A mellower luftre throws;
Friends, who to weep his lofs remain,
And youths enamour'd of his ftrain

Το

To Mafon's fhrine by fancy led,
Oft in yon fhadowy cave are seen,
Oft pacing flow these alleys green,
With foft and penfive tread.

Oft at high noon, the liftening ear,
While ftillness breathes around,
Aërial harpings seems to hear,

Of more than mortal found;
When evening fheds her grateful gloom,
To bend upon this vacant tomb,
Sweet melancholy steals along,

Sighs to the breeze in murmurs low,

Or pours a deeper note of woe

On Philomel's fad fong.

Bleft Poet, of a happier age!

Though mute thy tuneful lay,

Long shall survive thy facred page
Beyond life's little day;

Smote by rude time, in tangles torn

When these forfaken groves fhall mourn,

No more refponfive to thy praise

Thy moral pure, thy lofty ftrain,

Shall o'er the maddening paffions reign,
The foul to virtue raife.

Lines written at Nuneham,
By Mr. Edward Jerningham, 1806.

Nature one day, foft-fmiling, faid to Grace,

"With me thefe hills, that lawn, that valley trace." Grace bow'd to Nature's voice, and arm in arm

They pass'd along, and scatter'd many a charm.

IN

INSCRIPTION

For an Urn at the termination of the Terrace, 1806.

Remembrance! thou haft many a shrine around,

But be not here, beyond thy limits found,
To fadden the repose we feek, and heave

The bofom, care might now a moment leave.
To Nature, to the Dryad of yon tree,

Arife this urn, from thine encroachments free:
And let their happier, their benigner fway,
Charm the lull'd heart, with what the eyes furvey,
Charm with the woodland's odour, shade, and fongs,
Nor wake one thought, to which a figh belongs.

THE END.