The tuneful Pan retires; the vocal hills Resound no more, and all Arcadia mourns.

Yet here we fondly dreamt 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
Th' imperfect sketch of human bliss-whilst yet
Th' enraptur'd fire 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,

Where all the Sister-Graces gay,

That shap'd his walk's meandering way, Stark-naked, or but wreath'd with flowers, Lie slumbering soft beneath his bowers.

Wak'd by the stock-dove's melting strain, Behold them rise! and, with the train Of nymphs that haunt the stream or grove, Or o'er the flowery champain rove, Join hand in hand-attentive gaze→ And mark the dance's mystic maze.

"Such is the waving line," they cry, "For ever dear to Fancy's eye! Yon stream that wanders down the dale, The spiral wood, the winding vale, The path which, wrought with hidden skill, Slow twining scales yon distant hill With fir invested-all combine To recommend the waving line.

"The wreathed rod of Bacchus fair, The ringlets of Apollo's hair,

Or Naïad leaning o'er her tinkling urn.

Oh! could I learn to sanctify my strains

The smooth volutes of Ammon's horn, The structure of the Cyprian dame,

VERSES

WRITTEN AT The gardens of WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQUIRE, NEAR BIRMINGHAM, 1756.

Ille terrarum mihi præter omnes Angulus ridet.

WOULD

OULD 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,

Which prompts the friendly generous part,
Regardless of each venal art;
Regardless of the world's acclaim;
And courteous with no selfish aim.
Draw freely nigh, and welcome find,
If not the costly, yet the kind.
Oh, he will lead you to the cells
Where every Muse and Virtue dwells,
Where the green Dryads guard his woods,
Where the blue Naïads guide his floods;

HOR.

Show, to the pupils of design,
The triumphs of the waving line."

Then gaze, and mark that union sweet,
Where fair convex and concave meet;
And while, quick shifting as you stray,
The vivid scenes on fancy play;
The lawn, of aspect smooth and mild;
The forest-ground grotesque and wild;
The shrub that scents the mounting gale;
The stream rough dashing down the dale,
From rock to rock, in eddies tost;
The distant lake in which 't is lost;
Blue hills gay beaming through the glade;
Lone urns that solemnize the shade;
Sweet interchange of all that charms
In groves, meads, dingles, rivulets, farms;
If aught the fair confusion please,
With lasting health, and lasting ease,
To him who form'd the blissful bower,
And gave thy life one tranquil hour;
Wish peace and freedom-these possest,
His temperate mind secures the rest.

But if thy soul such bliss despise, Avert thy dull incurious eyes; Go fix them there, where gems and gold, Improv'd by art, their power unfold; Go try in courtly scenes to trace A fairer form of Nature's face: Go, scorn Simplicity- but know, That all our heart-felt joys below, That all which virtue loves to name, Which art consigns to lasting fame, Which fixes wit or beauty's throne, Derives its source from Her alone.

ARCADIO.

TO WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ. IN HIS SICKNESS.

BY MR. WOODHOUSE.

YE flowery plains, ye breezy woods,

Ye bowers and gay alcoves, Ye falling streams, ye silver floods, Ye grottocs, and ye groves!

Alas! my heart feels no delight,

Though I your charms survey; While he consumes in pain the night, In languid sighs the day.

The flowers disclose a thousand blooms,
A thousand scents diffuse;
Yet all in vain they shed perfumes,

In vain display their hues.

Restrain, ye flowers, your thoughtless pride,
Recline your gaudy heads;
And sadly drooping, side by side,

Embrace your humid beds.

Tall oaks, that o'er the woodland shade,
Your lofty summits rear!

Ah, why, in wonted charms array'd,
Expand your leaves so fair!

For lo, the flowers as gaily smile,
As wanton waves the tree;

And though I sadly plain the while,
Yet they regard not me.

Ah, should the Fates an arrow send,
And strike the fatal wound,

Who, who shall then your sweets defend,
Or fence your beauties round?

But hark, perhaps, the plumy throng
Have learnt my plaintive tale,

And some sad dirge, or mournful song,
Comes floating in the gale.

Ah, no! they chant a sprightly strain,
To soothe an amorous mate;
Unmindful of my anxious pain

And his uncertain fate.

But see, these little murmuring rills

With fond repinings rove;

And trickle wailing down the hills,
Or weep along the grove.

Oh, mock not, if beside your stream,
Ye hear me too repine;

Or aid with sighs your mournful theme,
And fondly call him mine.

Ye envious winds, the cause display,
In whispers as ye blow,

Why did your treacherous gales convey
The poison'd shafts of woe?

Did he not plant the shady bower,

Where you so blithely meet?

The scented shrub, and fragrant flower, To make your breezes sweet?

And must he leave the wood, the field,
The dear Arcadian reign?

Can neither verse nor virtue shield
The guardian of the plain?

Must he his tuneful breath resign,
Whom all the Muses love?

That round his brow their laurels twine,
And all his songs approve.

Preserve him, mild Omnipotence !
Our Father, King, and God,
Who clear'st the paths of life and sense,
Or stopp'st them at thy nod.

Blest power, who calm'st the raging deep, His valued health restore,

Nor let the sons of genius weep,

Nor let the good deplore!

But if thy boundless wisdom knows
His longer date an ill,
Let not my soul a wish disclose
To contradict thy will.

For happy, happy were the change,
For such a god-like mind,
To go where kindred spirits range,
Nor leave a wish behind.

And though, to share his pleasures here,
Kings might their state forego :
Yet must he feel such raptures there,
As none can taste below,

VERSES

LEFT ON A SEAT, THE HAND UNKNOWN. O EARTH! to his remains indulgent be, Who so much care and cost bestow'd on thee! Who crown'd thy barren hills with useful shade, And cheer'd with tinkling rills each silent glade; Here taught the day to wear a thoughtful gloom, And there enliven'd Nature's vernal bloom. Propitious earth! lie lightly on his head, And ever on his tomb thy vernal glories spread!

CORYDON, A PASTORAL.

TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ.

COME, shepherds, we'll follow the hearse,
And see our lov'd Corydon laid :
Though sorrow may blemish the verse,

Yet let the sad tribute be paid.
They call'd him the pride of the plain ;
In sooth, he was gentle and kind;

He mark'd in his elegant strain
The graces that glow'd in his mind.

On purpose he planted yon trees,

That birds in the covert might dwell;
He cultur'd his thyme for the bees,
But never would rifle their cell.
Ye lambkins, that play'd at his feet,
Go bleat-and your master bemoan;
His music was artless and sweet,

His manners as mild as your own.
No verdure shall cover the vale,

No bloom on the blossoms appear;
The sweets of the forest shall fail,

And Winter discolour the year.
No birds in our hedges shall sing
(Our hedges so vocal before,)
Since he that should welcome the Spring,
Can greet the gay season no more.
His Phyllis was fond of his praise,

And poets came round in a throng;
They listen'd, and envied his lays,

But which of them equal'd his song?