The text comes from The Works (1736).
To the Right Honourable George Lord Lansdown. |
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Non injussa cano: Te nostræ Vare myricæ |
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Virg. |
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| 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. | ||
| 5 | 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 inspir’d with equal flame, | ||
| 10 | Like them in beauty, should be like in fame. | |
| Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain, | ||
| Here earth and water, seem to strive again; | ||
| Not Chaos like together crush’d and bruis’d, | ||
| But as the world, harmoniously confus’d: | ||
| 15 | Where order in variety we see, | |
| And where, tho’ all things differ, all agree. | ||
| Here waving groves a checquer’d scene display, | ||
| And part admit, and part exclude the day; | ||
| As some coy nymph her lover’s warm address | ||
| 20 | Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress. | |
| There, interspers’d 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 blueish hills ascend. | ||
| 25 | Ev’n the wild heath displays her purple dyes, | |
| And ’midst the desart 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 we | ||
| 30 | The weeping amber or the balmy tree, | |
| While by our oaks the precious loads are born, | ||
| And realms commanded which those trees adorn. | ||
| Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight, | ||
| Tho’ Gods assembled grace his tow’ring height, | ||
| 35 | 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 th’ enamel’d ground, | ||
| Here Ceres’ gifts in waving prospect stand, | ||
| 40 | And nodding tempt the joyful reaper’s hand; | |
| Rich Industry sits smiling on the plains, | ||
| And peace and plenty tell, a Stuart reigns. | ||
| Not thus the land appear’d in ages past, | ||
| A dreary desart and a gloomy waste, | ||
| 45 | To savage beasts and savage laws a 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, | ||
| 50 | (For wiser brutes were backward to be slaves.) | |
| What could be free, when lawless beasts obey’d, | ||
| And ev’n the elements a Tyrant sway’d? | ||
| In vain kind seasons swell’d the teeming grain, | ||
| Soft show’rs distill’d, and suns grew warm in vain; | ||
| 55 | The swain with tears his frustrate labour yields, | |
| And famish’d dies amidst his ripen’d fields. | ||
| What wonder then, a beast or subject slain | ||
| Were equal crimes in a despotick reign? | ||
| Both doom’d alike, for sportive Tyrants bled, | ||
| 60 | But that the subject starv’d, the beast was fed. | |
| Proud Nimrod first the bloody chace began, | ||
| A mighty hunter, and his prey was man: | ||
| Our haughty Norman boasts that barb’rous name, | ||
| And makes his trembling slaves the royal game. | ||
| 65 | The fields are ravish’d from th’ 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 thro’ naked temples roar; | ||
| Round broken columns clasping ivy twin’d; | ||
| 70 | O’er heaps of ruin stalk’d the stately hind; | |
| The fox obscene to gaping tombs retires, | ||
| And savage howlings fill the sacred quires. | ||
| Aw’d by his Nobles, by his Commons curst, | ||
| Th’ Oppressor rul’d tyrannic where he durst, | ||
| 75 | Stretch’d o’er the Poor and Church his iron rod, | |
| And serv’d alike his Vassals and his God. | ||
| Whom ev’n the Saxon spar’d, and bloody Dane, | ||
| The wanton victims of his sport remain. | ||
| But see, the man who spacious regions gave | ||
| 80 | A waste for beasts, himself deny’d a grave! | |
| Stretch’d on the lawn, his second hope survey, | ||
| At once the chaser, and at once the prey: | ||
| Lo Rufus, tugging at the deadly dart, | ||
| Bleeds in the forest, like a wounded hart. | ||
| 85 | Succeeding Monarchs heard the subjects cries, | |
| Nor saw displeas’d the peaceful cottage rise. | ||
| Then gath’ring flocks on unknown mountains fed, | ||
| O’er sandy wilds were yellow harvests spread, | ||
| The forests wonder’d at th’ unusual grain, | ||
| 90 | And secret transport touch’d the conscious swain. | |
| Fair Liberty, Britannia’s Goddess, rears | ||
| Her chearful head, and leads the golden years. | ||
| Ye vig’rous swains! while youth ferments your blood, | ||
| And purer spirits swell the sprightly flood, | ||
| 95 | Now range the hills, the thickest 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, | ||
| 100 | Panting with hope, he tries the furrow’d grounds; | |
| But when the tainted gales the game betray, | ||
| Couch’d close he lies, and meditates the prey: | ||
| Secure they trust th’ unfaithful field, beset, | ||
| Till hov’ring o’er ’em sweeps the swelling net. | ||
| 105 | 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 th’ amaz’d, defenceless prize, | ||
| 110 | And high in air Britannia’s standard flies. | |
| See! 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. | ||
| 115 | 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, | ||
| 120 | The woods and fields their pleasing toils deny. | |
| To plains with well-breath’d beagles we repair, | ||
| And trace the mazes of the circling hare: | ||
| (Beasts, urg’d by us, their fellow-beasts pursue, | ||
| And learn of man each other to undo.) | ||
| 125 | With slaught’ring guns th’ unweary’d 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 wat’ry glade. | ||
| He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye; | ||
| 130 | Strait a short thunder breaks the frozen sky: | |
| Oft’, as in airy rings they skim the heath, | ||
| The clam’rous plovers feel the leaden death: | ||
| Oft’, as the mounting larks their notes prepare, | ||
| They fall, and leave their little lives in air. | ||
| 135 | In genial spring, beneath the quiv’ring shade, | |
| Where cooling vapours breathe along the mead, | ||
| The patient fisher takes his silent stand, | ||
| Intent, his angle trembling in his hand; | ||
| With looks unmov’d, he hopes the scaly breed, | ||
| 140 | And eyes the dancing cork, and bending reed. | |
| Our plenteous streams a various race supply, | ||
| The bright-ey’d perch with fins of Tyrian dye, | ||
| The silver eel, in shining volumes roll’d, | ||
| The yellow carp, in scales bedrop’d with gold, | ||
| 145 | Swift trouts, diversify’d with crimson stains, | |
| And pykes, the tyrants of the watry 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, | ||
| 150 | Rouze the fleet hart, and chear the opening hound. | |
| Th’ impatient courser pants in ev’ry vein, | ||
| And pawing, seems to beat the distant plain; | ||
| Hills, vales, and floods appear already cross’d, | ||
| And e’er he starts, a thousand steps are lost. | ||
| 155 | See! the bold youth strain up the threat’ning steep, | |
| Rush thro’ 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, | ||
| 160 | Th’ immortal huntress, and her virgin-train; | |
| Nor envy, Windsor! since thy shades have seen | ||
| As bright a Goddess, and as chaste a Queen; | ||
| Whose care, like hers, protects the sylvan reign, | ||
| The Earth’s fair light, and Empress of the main. | ||
| 165 | Here, as old bards have sung, Diana stray’d, | |
| Bath’d in the springs, or sought the cooling shade; | ||
| Here arm’d with silver bows, in early dawn, | ||
| Her buskin’d Virgins trac’d the dewy lawn. | ||
| Above the rest a rural nymph was fam’d, | ||
| 170 | Thy offspring, Thames! the fair Lodona nam’d; | |
| (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. | ||
| 175 | 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 chanc’d, as eager of the chace, the maid | ||
| 180 | Beyond the forest’s verdant limits stray’d, | |
| Pan saw and lov’d, and burning with desire | ||
| Pursu’d her flight, her flight increas’d his fire. | ||
| Not half so swift the trembling doves can fly, | ||
| When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky; | ||
| 185 | Not half so swiftly the fierce eagle moves, | |
| When thro’ the clouds he drives the trembling doves; | ||
| As from the God she flew with furious pace, | ||
| Or as the God, more furious, urg’d the chace. | ||
| Now fainting, sinking, pale, the nymph appears; | ||
| 190 | Now close behind, his sounding steps she hears; | |
| And 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. | ||
| 195 | In vain on father Thames she call’d for aid, | |
| Nor could Diana help her injur’d maid. | ||
| Faint, breathless, thus she pray’d, nor pray’d in vain; | ||
| "Ah Cynthia! ah tho’ banish’d from thy train, | ||
| "Let me, O let me, to the shades repair, | ||
| 200 | "My native shades there weep, and murmur there. | |
| She said, and melting as in tears she lay, | ||
| In a soft, silver stream dissolv’d away. | ||
| The silver stream her virgin coldness keeps, | ||
| For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps; | ||
| 205 | Still bears the name the hapless virgin bore, | |
| And bathes the forest where she rang’d before. | ||
| In her chaste current oft’ the Goddess laves, | ||
| And with celestial tears augments the waves. | ||
| Oft’ in her glass the musing shepherd spies | ||
| 210 | The headlong mountains and the downward skies, | |
| The watry landskip of the pendant 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. | ||
| 215 | Thro’ the fair scene rowl slow the ling’ring 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 tow’ring oaks their spreading honours rear, | ||
| 220 | And future navies on thy shores appear. | |
| Not Neptune’s self from all his streams receives | ||
| A 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. | ||
| 225 | Not fabled Po more swells the poet’s lays, | |
| While thro’ the skies his shining current strays, | ||
| Than thine, which visits Windsor’s fam’d abodes, | ||
| To grace the mansion of our earthly Gods: | ||
| Nor all his stars a brighter lustre show, | ||
| 230 | Than the fair nymphs that grace thy side below: | |
| Here Jove himself, subdu’d by beauty still, | ||
| Might change Olympus for a nobler hill. | ||
| Happy the man whom this bright Court approves, | ||
| His Sov’reign favours, and his Country loves: | ||
| 235 | 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, | ||
| 240 | And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields: | |
| With chymic art exalts the min’ral pow’rs, | ||
| And draws the aromatic souls of flow’rs: | ||
| Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high; | ||
| O’er figur’d worlds now travels with his eye: | ||
| 245 | Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store, | |
| Consults the dead, and lives past ages o’er: | ||
| Or wand’ring thoughtful in the silent wood, | ||
| Attends the duties of the wise and good, | ||
| T’observe a mean, be to himself a friend, | ||
| 250 | To follow nature, and regard his end; | |
| Or looks on heav’n 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! | ||
| 255 | Such was the life great Scipio once admir’d, | |
| Thus Atticus, and Trumbal thus retir’d. | ||
| 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, | ||
| 260 | The bow’ry mazes, and surrounding greens; | |
| To Thames’s banks which fragrant breezes fill, | ||
| Or where ye Muses sport on Cooper’s hill. | ||
| (On Cooper’s hill eternal wreaths shall grow, | ||
| While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall flow) | ||
| 265 | I seem thro’ consecrated walks to rove, | |
| I hear soft music die along the grove; | ||
| Led by the sound, I roam from shade to shade, | ||
| By god-like Poets venerable made: | ||
| Here his first lays majestic Denham sung; | ||
| There the last numbers flow’d from Cowley’s tongue. | ||
| O early lost! what tears the river shed, | ||
| When the sad pomp along his banks was led? | ||
| His drooping swans on ev’ry note expire, | ||
| And on his willows hung each Muse’s lyre. | ||
| 275 | Since fate relentless stop’d their heav’nly voice, | |
| No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice; | ||
| Who now shall charm the shades, where Cowley strung | ||
| His living harp, and lofty Denham sung? | ||
| But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings! | ||
| 280 | Are these reviv’d? or is it Granville sings? | |
| ’Tis yours, my Lord, to bless our soft retreats, | ||
| And call the Muses to their ancient seats; | ||
| To paint anew the flow’ry sylvan scenes, | ||
| To crown the forests with immortal greens, | ||
| 285 | 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 Surrey felt the sacred rage, | ||
| 290 | Surrey, the Granville of a former age: | |
| Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance, | ||
| Bold in the lists, and graceful in the dance: | ||
| In the same shades the Cupids tun’d his lyre, | ||
| To the same notes, of love, and soft desire: | ||
| 295 | Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow, | |
| Then fill’d the groves, as heav’nly Myra now. | ||
| Oh would’st thou sing what Heroes Windsor bore, | ||
| What Kings first breath’d upon her winding shore, | ||
| Or raise old warriours, whose ador’d remains | ||
| 300 | In weeping vaults her hallow’d earth contains! | |
| With Edward’s acts adorn the shining page, | ||
| Stretch his long triumphs down thro’ ev’ry age, | ||
| Draw Monarchs chain’d, and Cressi’s glorious field, | ||
| The lillies blazing on the regal shield: | ||
| 305 | 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, | ||
| 310 | And palms eternal flourish round his urn. | |
| Here o’er the martyr-King the marble weeps, | ||
| And fast beside him, once-fear’d Edward sleeps: | ||
| Whom not th’ extended Albion could contain, | ||
| From old Belerium to the northern main, | ||
| 315 | The grave unites; where ev’n the Great find rest, | |
| And blended lie th’ oppressor and th’ opprest! | ||
| Make sacred Charles’s tomb for ever known, | ||
| (Obscure the place, and un-inscrib’d the stone) | ||
| Oh fact accurst! what tears has Albion shed, | ||
| 320 | Heav’ns, what new wounds! and how her old have bled? | |
| She saw her sons with purple deaths expire, | ||
| Her sacred domes involv’d in rolling fire, | ||
| A dreadful series of intestine wars, | ||
| Inglorious triumphs, and dishonest scars. | ||
| 325 | 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 bed | ||
| Old father Thames advanc’d his rev’rend head. | ||
| His tresses drop’d with dews, and o’er the stream | ||
| 330 | His shining horns diffus’d a golden gleam: | |
| Grav’d on his urn, appear’d the Moon that guides | ||
| His swelling waters, and alternate tydes; | ||
| The figur’d streams in waves of silver roll’d, | ||
| And on their banks Augusta rose in gold. | ||
| 335 | Around his throne the sea-born brothers stood, | |
| Who swell with tributary urns his flood: | ||
| First the fam’d authors of his ancient name, | ||
| The winding Isis and the fruitful Tame: | ||
| The Kennet swift, for silver eels renown’d; | ||
| 340 | The Loddon slow, with verdant alders crown’d; | |
| Cole, whose clear streams his flow’ry islands lave; | ||
| And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave: | ||
| The blue, transparent Vandalis appears; | ||
| The gulphy Lee his sedgy tresses rears; | ||
| 345 | And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood; | |
| And silent Darent, stain’d with Danish blood. | ||
| High in the midst, upon his urn reclin’d, | ||
| (His sea-green mantle waving with the wind) | ||
| The God appear’d: he turn’d his azure eyes | ||
| 350 | Where Windsor-domes and pompous turrets rise; | |
| Then 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! | ||
| 355 | Tho’ Tyber’s streams immortal Rome behold, | |
| Tho’ foaming Hermus swells with tydes of gold, | ||
| From heav’n itself tho’ sev’n-fold Nilus flows, | ||
| And harvests on a hundred realms bestows; | ||
| These now no more shall be the Muse’s themes, | ||
| 360 | Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams. | |
| Let Volga’s banks with iron squadrons shine, | ||
| And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine, | ||
| Let barb’rous Ganges arm a servile train; | ||
| Be mine the blessings of a peaceful reign. | ||
| 365 | No more my sons shall dye with British blood | |
| Red Iber’s sands, or Ister’s foaming flood; | ||
| Safe on my shore each unmolested swain | ||
| Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain; | ||
| The shady empire shall retain no trace | ||
| 370 | Of war or blood, but in the sylvan chace; | |
| The trumpet sleep, while chearful horns are blown, | ||
| And arms employ’d on birds and beasts alone. | ||
| Behold! th’ ascending Villa’s on my side, | ||
| Project long shadows o’er the crystal tyde. | ||
| 375 | Behold! Augusta’s glitt’ring spires increase, | |
| And temples rise, the beauteous works of Peace. | ||
| I see, I see where two fair cities bend | ||
| Their ample bow, a new White-ball ascend! | ||
| There mighty nations shall enquire their doom, | ||
| 380 | The world’s great Oracle in times to come; | |
| There Kings shall sue, and suppliant States be seen | ||
| Once more to bend before a British Queen. | ||
| Thy trees, fair Windsor! now shall leave their woods, | ||
| And half thy forests rush into my floods, | ||
| 385 | 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, | ||
| 390 | Led by new stars, and borne by spicy gales! | |
| For 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. | ||
| 395 | The time shall come, when free as seas or wind | |
| Unbounded Thames shall flow for all mankind, | ||
| Whole nations enter with each swelling tyde, | ||
| And seas but join the regions they divide; | ||
| Earth’s distant ends our glory shall behold, | ||
| 400 | And the new world launch forth to seek the old. | |
| Then ships of uncouth form shall stem the tyde, | ||
| And feather’d people croud my wealthy side, | ||
| And naked youths and painted chiefs admire | ||
| Our speech, our colour, and our strange attire! | ||
| 405 | Oh stretch thy reign, fair Peace! from shore to shore, | |
| ’Till Conquest cease, and slav’ry be no more; | ||
| ’Till the freed Indians in their native groves | ||
| Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves, | ||
| Peru once more a race of Kings behold, | ||
| 410 | And other Mexico’s be roof’d with gold. | |
| Exil’d by thee from earth to deepest hell, | ||
| In brazen bonds shall barb’rous Discord dwell: | ||
| Gigantic Pride, pale Terror, gloomy Care, | ||
| And mad Ambition, shall attend her there: | ||
| 415 | There purple Vengeance bath’d 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, | ||
| 420 | And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain. | |
| Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallow’d lays | ||
| Touch 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. | ||
| 425 | My humble Muse, in unambitious strains, | |
| Paints the green forests and the flow’ry 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, | ||
| 430 | Pleas’d in the silent shade with empty praise; | |
| Enough for me, that to the list’ning swains | ||
| First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains. |