OH is there not some patriot, in whose power
That beft, that godlike Luxury is placed,
Of bleffing thousands, thousands yet unborn,
Thro' late pofterity? fome, large of foul,
To chear dejected industry? to give
A double harvest to the pining swain ?
And teach the labouring hand the sweets of toil?
How, by the finest art, the native robe
To weave; how, white as hyperborean fnow,
To form the lucid lawn; with venturous oar
How to dash wide the billow; nor look on,
Shamefully paffive, while Batavian fleets
Defraud us of the glittering finny fwarms,
That heave our friths, and croud upon our fhores ;
How all-enlivening trade to roufe, and wing
The profperous fail, from every growing port,
Uninjur'd, round the sea-incircled globe;
And thus, in foul united as in name,
Bid BRITAIN reign the mistress of the deep?
YES, there are fuch. And full on thee, ARGYLE, Her hope, her ftay, her darling, and her boaft, From her first patriots and her heroes sprung, Thy fond imploring Country turns her eye; In thee, with all a mother's triumph, fees Her every virtue, every grace combin'd, Her genius, wifdom, her engaging turn, Her pride of honour, and her courage try'd, Calm, and intrepid, in the very throat Of fulphurous war, on Tenier's dreadful field. H 2
Nor lefs the palm of peace inwreathes thy brow:
For, powerful as thy fword, from thy rich tongue
Perfuafion flows, and wins the high debate ;
While mix'd in thee combine the charm of youth, 940
The force of manhood, and the depth of age.
Thee, FORBES, too, whom every worth attends,
As truth fincere, as weeping friendship kind,
Thee, truly generous, and in filence great,
Thy country feels thro' her reviving arts,
Plann'd by thy wifdom, by thy foul inform'd ;
And feldom has she known a friend like thee.
BUT fee the fading many-colour'd woods, Shade deepening over shade, the country round Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dufk, and dun, 950 Of every hue, from wan declining green
To footy dark. These now the lonesome Mufe, Low-whispering, lead into their leaf-ftrown walks, And give the feason in its latest view.
MEAN-TIME, light-fhadowing all, afober calm 955 Fleeces unbounded ether; whose least wave Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn The gentle current: while illumin'd wide, The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the fun, And thro' their lucid veil his foftened force Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time, For those whom wisdom and whom Nature charm, To fteal themselves from the degenerate crowd, And foar above this little scene of things;
To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet; 965
To foothe the throbbing paffions into peace;
And woo lone Quiet in her filent walks.
THUS folitary, and in penfive guife,
Oft let me wander o'er the ruffet mead,
And thro' the faddened grove, where fcarce is heard 970
One dying strain, to chear the woodman's toil.
Haply fome widowed fongfter pours his plaint,
Far, in faint warblings, thro' the tawny copfe.
While congregated thrushes, linnets, larks,
And each wild throat, whofe artless strains fo late 975
Swell'd all the mufic of the fwarming fhades,
Robb'd of their tuneful fouls, now shivering fit
On the dead tree, a dull defpondent flock;
With not a brightness waving o'er their plumes,
And nought fave chattering discord in their note. 980
O let not, aim'd from fome inhuman eye,
The gun the music of the coming year
Destroy; and harmlefs, unfufpecting harm,
Lay the weak tribes a miferable prey,
In mingled murder, fluttering on the ground! 985
THE pale defcending year, yet pleafing ftill,
A gentler mood infpires; for now the leaf
Inceffant ruftles from the mournful grove;
Oft ftartling fuch as, ftudious, walk below,
And flowly circles thro' the waving air.
But fhould a quicker breeze amid the boughs
Sob, o'er the sky the leafy deluge streams;
H 3
'Till choak'd, and matted with the dreary fhower, The foreft-walks, at every rifing gale,
Roll wide the wither'd waste, and whistle bleak. 995
Fled is the blafted verdure of the fields;
And, fhrunk into their beds, the flowery race
Their funny robes refign. Even what remain'd
Of stronger fruits falls from the naked tree ;
And woods, fields, gardens, orchards, all around 1000
The defolated profpect thrills the foul.
He comes! he comes! in every breeze the POWER
Of PHILOSOPHIC MELANCHOLY comes!
His near approach the fudden-starting tear,
The glowing cheek, the mild dejected air, 1005
The foftened feature, and the beating heart,
Pierc'd deep with many a virtuous pang, declare.
O'er all the foul his facred influence breathes!
Inflames imagination; thro' the breast
Infuses every tenderness; and far
Beyond dim earth exalts the swelling thought.
Ten thousand thousand fleet ideas, fuch
As never mingled with the vulgar dream,
Croud faft into the Mind's creative eye.
As faft the correspondent paffions rise,
As varied, and as high: Devotion rais'd
To rapture, and divine astonishment;
The love of Nature unconfin'd, and, chief,
Of human race; the large ambitious wish,
To make them bleft; the figh for fuffering worth 1020 Loft in obfcurity; the noble fcorn
Of tyrant-pride; the fearless great refolve;
The wonder which the dying patriot draws,
Infpiring glory thro' remotest time;
Th' awakened throb for virtue, and for fame; 125
The fympathies of love, and friendship dear;
With all the focial Offspring of the heart.
OH bear me then to vast embowering shades, To twilight groves, and vifionary vales; To weeping grottoes, and prophetic glooms; 1030 Where angel forms athwart the folemn dusk, Tremendous fweep, or feem to fweep along ; And voices more than human, thro' the void Deep-founding, feize th' enthusiastic ear!
OR is this gloom too much? Then lead, ye powers,
That o'er the garden and the rural feat
Prefide, which shining thro' the chearful land
In countless numbers bleft BRITANNIA fees;
O lead me to the wide-extended walks,
The fair majestic paradife of STOWE!
Not Perfian Cyrus on Ionia's fhore
E'er faw fuch filvan scenes; fuch various art
By genius fir'd, fuch ardent genius tam'd
By cool judicious art; that, in the ftrife,
All-beauteous Nature fears to be outdone.
And there, O PITT, thy country's early boaft,
There let me fit beneath the fheltered flopes,
Or in that † Temple where, in future times,
The feat of the Lord Viscount Cobbam.
The Temple of Virtue in Stowe Gardens.
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