VER. 1. The first edition continues from this line to ver. 24 of thiscanto.VER. 12. Originally in the first edition:—In various talk the cheerful hours they pass'd,Of who was bit, or who capotted last.VER. 24. All that follows of the game at ombre, was added since thefirst edition, till ver. 105, which connected thus:—Sudden the board with cups and spoons is crown'd.VER. 105. From hence, the first edition continues to ver 134.VER. 134. In the first edition it was thus:—As o'er the fragrant stream she bends her head.First he expands the glittering forfex wideTo inclose the lock; then joins it to divide:The meeting points the sacred hair dissever,From the fair head for ever and for ever.Ver. 154. All that is between was added afterwards.
But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppress'd,And secret passions labour'd in her breast.Not youthful kings in battle seized alive,Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss,Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss,Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die,Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinn'd awry,E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair,As thou, sad virgin! for thy ravish'd hair. 10For, that sad moment, when the Sylphs withdrew,And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew,Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite,As ever sullied the fair face of light,Down to the central earth, his proper scene,Repair'd, to search the gloomy cave of Spleen.Swift on his sooty pinions flits the Gnome,And in a vapour reach'd the dismal dome.No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows,The dreaded east is all the wind that blows; 20Here in a grotto, shelter'd close from air,And screened in shades from day's detested glare,She sighs for ever on her pensive bed,Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head.Two handmaids wait the throne: alike in place,But differing far in figure and in face.Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid,Her wrinkled form in black and white array'd;With store of prayers for mornings, nights, and noonsHer hand is fill'd; her bosom with lampoons. 30There Affectation, with a sickly mien,Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen;Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside,Faints into airs, and languishes with pride;On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe,Wrapp'd in a gown, for sickness, and for show.The fair ones feel such maladies as these,When each new night-dress gives a new disease.A constant vapour o'er the palace flies,Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise; 40Dreadful, as hermits' dreams in haunted shades,Or bright, as visions of expiring maids.Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires,Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires:Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes,And crystal domes, and angels in machines.Unnumber'd throngs on every side are seenOf bodies changed to various forms by Spleen.Here living teapots stand, one arm held out,One bent; the handle this, and that the spout: 50A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod walks;Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie talks;Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works,And maids turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks.Safe pass'd the Gnome through this fantastic band,A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand.Then thus address'd the power—'Hail, wayward Queen!Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen:Parent of vapours and of female wit,Who give the hysteric, or poetic fit, 60On various tempers act by various ways,Make some take physic, others scribble plays;Who cause the proud their visits to delay,And send the godly in a pet to pray;A nymph there is, that all thy power disdains,And thousands more in equal mirth maintains.But oh! if e'er thy Gnome could spoil a grace,Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face,Like citron-waters matrons' cheeks inflame,Or change complexions at a losing game; 70If e'er with airy horns I planted heads,Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds,Or caused suspicion when no soul was rude,Or discomposed the head-dress of a prude,Or e'er to costive lapdog gave disease,Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease:Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin,That single act gives half the world the spleen.'The goddess with a discontented airSeems to reject him, though she grants his prayer. 80A wondrous bag with both her hands she binds,Like that where once Ulysses held the winds;33There she collects the force of female lungs,Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues.A vial next she fills with fainting fears,Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears.The Gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away,Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day.Sunk in Thalestris'34arms the nymph he found,Her eyes dejected and her hair unbound. 90Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent,And all the furies issued at the vent.Belinda burns with more than mortal ire,And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire.'O wretched maid!' she spread her hands, and cried,(While Hampton's echoes 'wretched maid!' replied)'Was it for this you took such constant careThe bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare?For this your locks in paper durance bound,For this with torturing irons wreath'd around? 100For this with fillets strain'd your tender head,And bravely bore the double loads of lead?Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair,While the fops envy, and the ladies stare?Honour forbid! at whose unrivall'd shrineEase, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign.Methinks already I your tears survey,Already hear the horrid things they say,Already see you a degraded toast,And all your honour in a whisper lost! 110How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend?'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend!And shall this prize, the inestimable prize,Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes,And heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays,On that rapacious hand for ever blaze?Sooner shall grass in Hyde-park Circus grow,And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow;Sooner let earth, air, sea to chaos fall,Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish all!' 120She said; then raging to Sir Plume35repairs,And bids her beau demand the precious hairs:(Sir Plume of amber snuff-box justly vain,And the nice conduct of a clouded cane.)With earnest eyes, and round, unthinking face,He first the snuff-box open'd, then the case,And thus broke out—'My Lord, why, what the devil?Z—ds! damn the lock! 'fore Gad, you must be civil!Plague on't! 'tis past a jest—nay, prithee, pox!Give her the hair'—he spoke, and rapp'd his box. 130'It grieves me much' (replied the Peer again)Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain;'But by this lock, this sacred lock I swear,(Which never more shall join its parted hair;Which never more its honours shall renew,Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew)That while my nostrils draw the vital air,This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear.'He spoke, and, speaking, in proud triumph spreadThe long-contended honours of her head. 140But Umbriel, hateful Gnome! forbears not so;He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow.Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears,Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in tears;On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head,Which, with a sigh, she raised; and thus she said:'For ever cursed be this detested day,Which snatch'd my best, my favourite curl away!Happy! ah, ten times happy had I been,If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen! 150Yet am not I the first mistaken maid,By love of courts to numerous ills betray'd.Oh, had I rather unadmired remain'dIn some lone isle, or distant northern land;Where the gilt chariot never marks the way,Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste bohea!There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye,Like roses that in deserts bloom and die.What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam?Oh, had I stay'd, and said my prayers at home! 160'Twas this the morning omens seem'd to tell:Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell;The tottering china shook without a wind,Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind!A Sylph too warn'd me of the threats of Fate,In mystic visions, now believed too late.See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs!My hands shall rend what ev'n thy rapine spares:These in two sable ringlets taught to break,Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck; 170The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone,And in its fellow's fate foresees its own;Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal shears demands,And tempts, once more, thy sacrilegious hands.Oh hadst thou, cruel! been content to seizeHairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!'
VER. 11. All the lines from hence to the 94th verse, that describe thehouse of Spleen, are not in the first edition; instead of them followedonly these:—While her rack'd soul repose and peace requires,The fierce Thalestris fans the rising fires.And continued at the 94th verse of this canto.
She said: the pitying audience melt in tears;But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears.In vain Thalestris with reproach assails,For who can move when fair Belinda fails?Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain,While Anna begg'd and Dido raged in vain.Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan;Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began:'Say, why are beauties praised and honour'd most,The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast? 10Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford?Why angels call'd, and angel-like adored?Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved beaux?Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows?How vain are all these glories, all our pains,Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains:That men may say, when we the front-box grace,Behold the first in virtue as in face!Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day,Charm'd the small-pox, or chased old-age away; 20Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce,Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint,Nor could it, sure, be such a sin to paint.But since, alas! frail beauty must decay,Curl'd or uncurl'd, since locks will turn to gray;Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,And she who scorns a man, must die a maid;What then remains, but well our power to use,And keep good-humour still, whate'er we lose? 30And trust me, dear! good-humour can prevail,When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll;Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.'So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued;Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her prude.'To arms, to arms!' the fierce virago cries,And swift as lightning to the combat flies.All side in parties, and begin the attack;Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack; 40Heroes' and heroines' shouts confusedly rise,And bass and treble voices strike the skies.No common weapons in their hands are found,Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound.So when bold Homer makes the gods engage,And heavenly breasts with human passions rage;'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms,And all Olympus rings with loud alarms:Jove's thunder roars, heaven trembles all around,Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound: 50Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground gives way,And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's heightClapp'd his glad wings, and sat to view the fight;Propp'd on their bodkin spears, the sprites surveyThe growing combat, or assist the fray.While through the press enraged Thalestris flies,And scatters death around from both her eyes,A beau and witling perish'd in the throng,One died in metaphor, and one in song. 60'O cruel nymph! a living death I bear,'Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair.A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast,'Those eyes are made so killing!'—was his last.Thus on Maeander's36flowery margin liesThe expiring swan, and as he sings he dies.When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down,Chloe stepped in, and kill'd him with a frown;She smiled to see the doughty hero slain,But, at her smile, the beau revived again. 70Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air,Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair;The doubtful beam long nods from side to side;At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside.See fierce Belinda on the Baron flies,With more than usual lightning in her eyes:Nor fear'd the chief th' unequal fight to try,Who sought no more than on his foe to die.But this bold lord, with manly strength endued,She with one finger and a thumb subdued: 80Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew,A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw;The Gnomes direct, to every atom just,The pungent grains of titillating dust.Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows,And the high dome re-echoes to his nose.'Now meet thy fate!' incensed Belinda cried,And drew a deadly bodkin from her side,(The same, his ancient personage to deck,Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, 90In three seal-rings; which after, melted down,Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown:Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew,The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew;Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs,Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)'Boast not my fall,' (he cried) 'insulting foe!Thou by some other shalt be laid as low.Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind: 100All that I dread is leaving you behind!Rather than so, ah! let me still survive,And burn in Cupid's flames,—but burn alive.''Restore the lock!' she cries; and all around'Restore the lock!' the vaulted roofs rebound.Not fierce Othello in so loud a strainRoar'd for the handkerchief that caused his pain.But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd,And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost!The lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain,In every place is sought, but sought in vain: 110With such a prize no mortal must be blest,So Heaven decrees! with Heaven who can contest?Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere,Since all things lost on earth are treasured there.There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases,And beaux' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases.There broken vows, and death-bed alms are found,And lovers' hearts with ends of ribbon bound,The courtier's promises, and sick man's prayers,The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, 120Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea,Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.But trust the Muse—she saw it upward rise,Though mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes:(So Rome's great founder to the heavens withdrew,To Proculus alone confess'd in view)A sudden star, it shot through liquid air,And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright,The heaven's bespangling with dishevell'd light. 130The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,And, pleased, pursue its progress through the skies.This the beau-monde shall from the Mall survey,And hail with music its propitious ray.This the bless'd lover shall for Venus take,And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake.This Partridge37soon shall view in cloudless skies,When next he looks through Galileo's eyes;And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoomThe fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. 140Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair,Which adds new glory to the shining sphere!Not all the tresses that fair head can boast,Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost.For, after all the murders of your eye,When, after millions slain, yourself shall die;When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,This lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame,And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 150
WINDSOR-FOREST.38TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE GEORGE LORD LANSDOWNE.
'Non injussa cano: te nostrae, Vare, myricae,Te nemus omne canet; nee Phoebo gratior ulla est,Quam sibi quae Vari praescripsit pagina nomen.'VIRG.
Thy forests, Windsor! and thy green retreats,At once the Monarch's and the Muse's seats,Invite my lays. Be present, sylvan Maids!Unlock your springs, and open all your shades.Granville commands; your aid, O Muses, bring!What Muse for Granville can refuse to sing?The groves of Eden, vanish'd now so long,Live in description, and look green in song:These, were my breast inspired with equal flame,Like them in beauty, should be like in fame. 10Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain,Here earth and water seem to strive again;Not chaos-like, together crush'd and bruised,But, as the world, harmoniously confused;Where order in variety we see,And where, though all things differ, all agree.Here waving groves a chequer'd scene display,And part admit, and part exclude the day;As some coy nymph her lover's warm addressNor quite indulges, nor can quite repress. 20There, interspersed in lawns and opening glades,Thin trees arise that shun each other's shades.Here in full light the russet plains extend:There, wrapt in clouds the bluish hills ascend.Ev'n the wild heath displays her purple dyes,And 'midst the desert fruitful fields arise,That crown'd with tufted trees and springing corn,Like verdant isles the sable waste adorn.Let India boast her plants, nor envy weThe weeping amber or the balmy tree, 30While by our oaks the precious loads are born,And realms commanded which those trees adorn.Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight,Though gods assembled grace his towering height.Than what more humble mountains offer here,Where, in their blessings, all those gods appear.See Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona crown'd,Here blushing Flora paints the enamell'd ground,Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand,And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand; 40Rich industry sits smiling on the plains,And peace and plenty tell a Stuart39reigns.Not thus the land appear'd in ages past,A dreary desert, and a gloomy waste,To savage beasts and savage laws40a prey,And kings more furious and severe than they;Who claim'd the skies, dispeopled air and floods,The lonely lords of empty wilds and woods:Cities laid waste, they storm'd the dens and caves,(For wiser brutes were backward to be slaves). 50What could be free, when lawless beasts obey'd,And even the elements a tyrant sway'd?In vain kind seasons swell'd the teeming grain,Soft showers distill'd, and suns grew warm in vain;The swain with tears his frustrate labour yields,And famish'd dies amidst his ripen'd fields.What wonder, then, a beast or subject slainWere equal crimes in a despotic reign?Both doom'd alike, for sportive tyrants bled,But while the subject starved, the beast was fed. 60Proud Nimrod first the bloody chase began,A mighty hunter, and his prey was man:Our haughty Norman boasts that barbarous name,And makes his trembling slaves the royal game.The fields are ravish'd41from the industrious swains,From men their cities, and from gods their fanes:The levell'd towns with weeds lie cover'd o'er;The hollow winds through naked temples roar;Round broken columns clasping ivy twined;O'er heaps of ruin stalk'd the stately hind; 70The fox obscene to gaping tombs retires,And savage howlings fill the sacred choirs.Awed by his Nobles, by his Commons cursed,The oppressor ruled tyrannic where he durst,Stretch'd o'er the poor and Church his iron rod,And served alike his vassals and his God.Whom even the Saxon spared, and bloody Dane,The wanton victims of his sport remain.But see, the man who spacious regions gaveA waste for beasts, himself denied a grave!4280Stretch'd on the lawn, his second hope43survey,At once the chaser, and at once the prey:Lo Rufus, tugging at the deadly dart,Bleeds in the forest like a wounded hart.Succeeding monarchs heard the subjects' cries,Nor saw displeased the peaceful cottage rise.Then gathering flocks on unknown mountains fed,O'er sandy wilds were yellow harvests spread,The forests wonder'd at the unusual grain,And secret transport touch'd the conscious swain. 90Fair Liberty, Britannia's goddess, rearsHer cheerful head, and leads the golden years.Ye vigorous swains! while youth ferments your blood,And purer spirits swell the sprightly flood,Now range the hills, the gameful woods beset,Wind the shrill horn, or spread the waving net.When milder autumn summer's heat succeeds,And in the new-shorn field the partridge feeds,Before his lord the ready spaniel bounds,Panting with hope, he tries the furrow'd grounds; 100But when the tainted gales the game betray,Couch'd close he lies, and meditates the prey:Secure they trust the unfaithful field beset,Till hovering o'er 'em sweeps the swelling net.Thus (if small things we may with great compare)When Albion sends her eager sons to war,Some thoughtless town, with ease and plenty blest,Near, and more near, the closing lines invest;Sudden they seize the amazed, defenceless prize,And high in air Britannia's standard flies. 110See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs,And mounts exulting on triumphant wings:Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound,Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes,His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold?Nor yet, when moist Arcturus clouds the sky,The woods and fields their pleasing toils deny. 120To plains with well-breath'd beagles we repair,And trace the mazes of the circling hare;(Beasts, urged by us, their fellow-beasts pursue,And learn of man each other to undo.)With slaughtering gun the unwearied fowler roves,When frosts have whiten'd all the naked groves;Where doves in flocks the leafless trees o'ershade,And lonely woodcocks haunt the watery glade.He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye;Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky; 130Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath,The clamorous lapwings feel the leaden death:Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare,They fall, and leave their little lives in air.In genial spring, beneath the quivering shade,Where cooling vapours breathe along the mead,The patient fisher takes his silent stand,Intent, his angle trembling in his hand:With looks unmoved, he hopes the scaly breed,And eyes the dancing cork, and bending reed. 140Our plenteous streams a various race supply,The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye,The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd,The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold,Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains,And pikes, the tyrants of the watery plains.Now Cancer glows with Phoebus' fiery car:The youth rush eager to the sylvan war,Swarm o'er the lawns, the forest walks surround,Rouse the fleet hart, and cheer the opening hound. 150The impatient courser pants in every vein,And pawing, seems to beat the distant plain:Hills, vales, and floods appear already cross'd,And ere he starts, a thousand steps are lost.See the bold youth strain up the threatening steep,Rush through the thickets, down the valleys sweep,Hang o'er their coursers' heads with eager speed,And earth rolls back beneath the flying steed.Let old Arcadia boast her ample plain,The immortal huntress, and her virgin-train; 160Nor envy, Windsor! since thy shades have seenAs bright a goddess, and as chaste a queen,44Whose care, like hers, protects the sylvan reign,The earth's fair light, and empress of the main.Here too, 'tis sung, of old Diana stray'd,And Cynthus' top forsook for Windsor shade;Here was she seen o'er airy wastes to rove,Seek the clear spring, or haunt the pathless grove;Here, arm'd with silver bows, in early dawn,Her buskin'd virgins traced the dewy lawn. 170Above the rest a rural nymph was famed,Thy offspring, Thames! the fair Lodona named;(Lodona's fate, in long oblivion cast,The Muse shall sing, and what she sings shall last).Scarce could the goddess from her nymph be known,But by the crescent and the golden zone.She scorn'd the praise of beauty, and the care;A belt her waist, a fillet binds her hair;A painted quiver on her shoulder sounds,And with her dart the flying deer she wounds.It chanced, as eager of the chase, the maidBeyond the forest's verdant limits stray'd, 180Pan saw and loved, and, burning with desire,Pursued her flight, her flight increased his fire.Not half so swift the trembling doves can fly,When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky;Not half so swiftly the fierce eagle moves,When through the clouds he drives the trembling doves;As from the god she flew with furious pace,Or as the god, more furious, urged the chase.Now fainting, sinking, pale the nymph appears;Now close behind, his sounding steps she hears; 190And now his shadow reach'd her as she run,His shadow lengthen'd by the setting sun;And now his shorter breath, with sultry air,Pants on her neck, and fans her parting hair.In vain on father Thames she calls for aid,Nor could Diana help her injured maid.Faint, breathless, thus she pray'd, nor pray'd in vain:'Ah, Cynthia! ah—though banish'd from thy train,Let me, oh! let me, to the shades repair,My native shades—there weep, and murmur there.' 200She said, and melting as in tears she lay,In a soft, silver stream dissolved away.The silver stream her virgin coldness keeps,For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps;Still bears the name45the hapless virgin bore,And bathes the forest where she ranged before.In her chaste current oft the goddess laves,And with celestial tears augments the waves.Oft in her glass the musing shepherd spiesThe headlong mountains and the downward skies, 210The watery landscape of the pendent woods,And absent trees that tremble in the floods;In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen,And floating forests paint the waves with green,Through the fair scene roll slow the lingering streams,Then foaming pour along, and rush into the Thames.Thou, too, great Father of the British floods!With joyful pride survey'st our lofty woods;Where towering oaks their growing honours rear,And future navies on thy shores appear. 220Not Neptune's self from all her streams receivesA wealthier tribute, than to thine he gives.No seas so rich, so gay no banks appear,No lake so gentle, and no spring so clear.Nor Po so swells the fabling poet's lays,While led along the skies his current strays,As thine, which visits Windsor's famed abodes,To grace the mansion of our earthly gods:Nor all his stars above a lustre show,Like the bright beauties on thy banks below; 230Where Jove, subdued by mortal passion still,Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.Happy the man whom this bright court approves,His sovereign favours, and his country loves:Happy next him who to these shades retires,Whom Nature charms, and whom the Muse inspires:Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please,Successive study, exercise, and ease.He gathers health from herbs the forest yields,And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields: 240With chemic art exalts the mineral powers,And draws the aromatic souls of flowers:Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high;O'er figured worlds now travels with his eye;Of ancient writ unlocks the learnèd store,Consults the dead, and lives past ages o'er:Or wandering thoughtful in the silent wood,Attends the duties of the wise and good,To observe a mean, be to himself a friend,To follow nature, and regard his end; 250Or looks on Heaven with more than mortal eyes,Bids his free soul expatiate in the skies,Amid her kindred stars familiar roam,Survey the region, and confess her home!Such was the life great Scipio once admired,Thus Atticus, and Trumbull46thus retired.Ye sacred Nine! that all my soul possess,Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless,Bear me, oh, bear me to sequester'd scenes,The bowery mazes, and surrounding greens: 260To Thames's banks which fragrant breezes fill,Or where ye Muses sport on Cooper's Hill.47(On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths shall grow,While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall flow.)I seem through consecrated walks to rove,I hear soft music die along the grove:Led by the sound, I roam from shade to shade,By godlike poets venerable made:Here his first lays majestic Denham sung;There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's tongue.48270Oh early lost! what tears the river shed,When the sad pomp along his banks was led!His drooping swans on every note expire,And on his willows hung each Muse's lyre.Since fate relentless stopp'd their heavenly voice,No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice;Who now shall charm the shades, where Cowley strungHis living harp, and lofty Denham sung?But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings!Are these revived? or is it Granville sings? 280'Tis yours, my lord, to bless our soft retreats,And call the Muses to their ancient seats;To paint anew the flowery sylvan scenes,To crown the forest with immortal greens,Make Windsor hills in lofty numbers rise,And lift her turrets nearer to the skies;To sing those honours you deserve to wear,And add new lustre to her silver star.Here noble Surrey49felt the sacred rage,Surrey, the Granville of a former age: 290Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance,Bold in the lists, and graceful in the dance:In the same shades the Cupids tuned his lyre,To the same notes, of love and soft desire:Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow,Then fill'd the groves, as heavenly Mira now.Oh, wouldst thou sing what heroes Windsor bore,What kings first breathed upon her winding shore,Or raise old warriors, whose adored remainsIn weeping vaults her hallow'd earth contains! 300With Edward's acts50adorn the shining page,Stretch his long triumphs down through every age,Draw monarchs chain'd, and Cressy's glorious field,The lilies blazing on the regal shield:Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colours fall,And leave inanimate the naked wall,Still in thy song should vanquish'd France appear,And bleed for ever under Britain's spear.Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn,51And palms eternal flourish round his urn. 310Here o'er the martyr-king the marble weeps,And, fast beside him, once-fear'd Edward sleeps.52Whom not the extended Albion could contain,From old Belerium to the northern main,The grave unites; where ev'n the great find rest,And blended lie the oppressor and the oppress'd!Make sacred Charles' tomb for ever known,(Obscure the place, and uninscribed the stone)Oh fact accursed! what tears has Albion shed,Heavens, what new wounds! and how her old have bled! 320She saw her sons with purple deaths expire,Her sacred domes involved in rolling fire,A dreadful series of intestine wars,Inglorious triumphs and dishonest scars.At length great Anna said—'Let discord cease!'She said, the world obey'd, and all was peace!In that blest moment, from his oozy bedOld Father Thames advanced his reverend head;His tresses dropp'd with dews, and o'er the streamHis shining horns diffused a golden gleam: 330Graved on his urn appear'd the moon, that guidesHis swelling waters, and alternate tides;The figured streams in waves of silver roll'd,And on their banks Augusta53rose in gold.Around his throne the sea-born brothers stood,Who swell with tributary urns his flood;First the famed authors of his ancient name,The winding Isis and the fruitful Thame:The Kennet swift, for silver eels renown'd;The Loddon slow, with verdant alders crown'd; 340Cole, whose dark streams his flowery islands lave;And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave;The blue, transparent Vandalis appears;The gulfy Lee his sedgy tresses rears;And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood;And silent Darent, stain'd with Danish blood.High in the midst, upon his urn reclined,(His sea-green mantle waving with the wind)The god appear'd: he turn'd his azure eyesWhere Windsor-domes and pompous turrets rise; 350Then bow'd and spoke; the winds forget to roar,And the hush'd waves glide softly to the shore.Hail, sacred Peace! hail, long-expected days,That Thames's glory to the stars shall raise!Though Tiber's streams immortal Rome behold,Though foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold,From heaven itself though sevenfold Nilus flows,And harvests on a hundred realms bestows;These now no more shall be the Muse's themes,Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams. 360Let Volga's banks with iron squadrons shine,And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine,Let barbarous Ganges arm a servile train;Be mine the blessings of a peaceful reign.No more my sons shall dye with British bloodRed Iber's sands, or Ister's foaming flood:Safe on my shore each unmolested swainShall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain;The shady empire shall retain no traceOf war or blood, but in the sylvan chase; 370The trumpet sleep, while cheerful horns are blown,And arms employ'd on birds and beasts alone.Behold! the ascending villas on my side,Project long shadows o'er the crystal tide,Behold! Augusta's glittering spires increase,And temples rise,54the beauteous works of Peace.I see, I see, where two fair cities bendTheir ample bow, a new Whitehall ascend!There mighty nations shall inquire their doom,The world's great oracle in times to come; 380There kings shall sue, and suppliant states be seenOnce more to bend before a British queen.Thy trees, fair Windsor! now shall leave their woods,And half thy forests rush into the floods,Bear Britain's thunder, and her cross display,To the bright regions of the rising day;Tempt icy seas, where scarce the waters roll,Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole;Or under southern skies exalt their sails,Led by new stars, and borne by spicy gales! 390For me the balm shall bleed, and amber flow,The coral redden, and the ruby glow,The pearly shell its lucid globe infold,And Phoebus warm the ripening ore to gold.The time shall come when, free as seas or wind,Unbounded Thames shall flow for all mankind,Whole nations enter with each swelling tide,And seas but join the regions they divide;Earth's distant ends our glory shall behold,And the new world launch forth to seek the old. 400Then ships of uncouth form shall stem the tide,And feather'd people crowd my wealthy side,And naked youths and painted chiefs admireOur speech, our colour, and our strange attire!O stretch thy reign, fair Peace! from shore to shore,Till conquest cease, and slavery be no more;Till the freed Indians in their native grovesReap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves,Peru once more a race of kings behold,And other Mexicos be roof'd with gold. 410Exiled by thee from earth to deepest hell,In brazen bonds, shall barbarous Discord dwell;Gigantic Pride, pale Terror, gloomy Care,And mad Ambition shall attend her there:There purple Vengeance bathed in gore retires,Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires:There hateful Envy her own snakes shall feel,And Persecution mourn her broken wheel:There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain,And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain. 420Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallow'd laysTouch the fair fame of Albion's golden days:The thoughts of gods let Granville's verse recite,And bring the scenes of opening fate to light.My humble Muse, in unambitious strains,Paints the green forests and the flowery plains,Where Peace descending bids her olives spring,And scatters blessings from her dove-like wing.Ev'n I more sweetly pass my careless days,Pleased in the silent shade with empty praise; 430Enough for me, that to the listening swainsFirst in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.