fancy is difplayed, that it is apparent the genius of poetry must have affifted in the compofition.

Mr. Repton, in his very ingenious and inftructive work, on the Theory and Practice of Landscape Gardening, obferves, that "the flower-garden at Nuneham, without being formal, is highly enriched, but not too much crowded with feats, temples, ftatues, or other ornaments, which being works of art, beautifully harmonize with that profufion of flowers and curious plants, which distinguish the flower-garden from natural landfcape, although the walks are not in ftraight lines."

POEMS

POEMS,

WRITTEN AT NUNEHAM.

LINES,

Left in the Flower-Garden, by the late Dr. Bacon, Author of the Snipe, &c.

Could Milton be reftor'd to fight,

He might at good Lord Nuneham's coft
See here, with exquifite delight,

The Paradife, His Adam Loft.

To Walter Clark.

By the Hon. Horace Walpole, 1773..

Your pinks and tulips live an hour,

A fortnight bounds your utmost pow'r.
Flora, the niggard Goddefs, pays
With fhort-liv'd joys the toil of days.
But, Walter Clark, your happy lot
İs fallen in a fairer spot:

A Mufe has deign'd to view your bow'r,
And ftampt immortal every flow'r;
Her breath new perfumes can disclose,
Her touch improve the damask fose :
And ages hence, the buds you raise
Shall bloom, in Nuneham'sh living lays.

The lilies of the field, that fhone
With brighter blaze than Solomon,

Shall beg to quit their rural ftations,

To mix with Walter Clark's carnations.

To Gratitude, left in the Grotto in the
Flower-Garden, 1776.

Goddess, to thee we confecrate this Grot,
Here fix thy throne, and bless the favour'd spot;
What though we deck with wreaths fair Flora's bower,
And hail with tuneful fongs the Delian power,

To Pan, to Faunus, rural altars raise,

And bid the Cyprian fhrine with incenfe blaze;
Give to the Sage the honour due, or mourn
With pious friendship o'er yon facred Urn;

Yet ftill, bright Nymph, be thine the warmest praise,
The sweeteft garlands, and the fofteft lays.

Come, with thy glowing cheek, thy tearful eye,
Thy smile half check'd, thy foul diffolving figh;
Thy faultering voice, thy throbbing heart, and teach
Virtues, which only thou haft power to reach.

To Oberon, written in the Flower-Garden, 1777.

Oh thou, whom with thy airy train
Our Shakespear fung in wildeft ftrain;
Sweet Oberon, once more to thee

A fuppliant mortal bends the knee :
If (as 'tis faid) thy magic powers

Extend o'er herbs, and plants, and flowers;
Ah vifit this enamel'd ground,

And wave thy fairy wand around

Bid every noxious vapour fly,

With balmy zephyrs warm the sky;
Close every bud of baleful hue,

And purify the evening dew.

That rofe-lip'd health with frolic mien,

Like thee may trip the circled green;

And

And bring with her the heart's beft treasure,
Calm delight and focial pleasure;
And if there be yet a bleffing
Worth defiring, worth poffeffing,
Gentle Spirit, let thy power
Charm it to this fragrant bower;

And then command thy Elfin bands

To clip Time's wings, and bind his hands,
That every joy may lingʼring stay,

Nor dread his fcythe's too powerful fway.
So may bright Cynthia's filver ray
Illume the noon of fairy day;

So may no ftep or eye prophane
Disturb the revels of thy train;
So may each blooming flower diffufe,
For thee, its most nectareous dews;
And bees their honied tribute bring
To Oberon, the Fairy King.

On the improvements at Nuneham-Courtenay, by Mr. Whitehead, 1781.

Dame Nature the goddefs, one very bright day
In ftrolling through Nuneham, met Brown on the way;
And blefs me, the faid, with an infolent fneer,

I wonder that fellow will dare to come here.

What more than I did, has your impudence plann'd ?
The lawn, wood, and water, are all of my hand ;
In my very beft manner, with Themis's fcales,

I lifted the hills, and I fcoop'd out the vales;
With Sylvan's own umbrage I grac'd every brow;
And pour'd the rich Thames through the meadows below.
I grant it, he cried; to your fov'reign command

I bow as I ought-Gentle Lady, your hand;

The weather's inviting, fo let us move on ;

You know what you did, and now fee what I've done.
I with gratitude own you have reason to plead,
That to these happy scenes you were bounteous indeed:

My

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

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

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

trees?

Who bade the flopes fall with that delicate ease,

Who caft them in shade, 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 overdrest,
I have ftripp'd you again to your boddice and vest,
Conceal'd ev'ry blemish, each beauty difplay'd,
As Reynolds would picture some exquifite maid,
Each spirited feature would happily place,
And fhed o'er the whole inexpreffible grace.

One question 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 burst from this wood, A wood of my planting. The Goddefs cried, Hold!

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

She fann'd, and she shudder'd, the cough'd, and she sneez'd, Inclin'd to be angry, inclin'd to be pleas'd,

Half