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THE 
 
 ENGLISH GARDEN: 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 IN FOUR BOOKS. 
 
 By william MASON, M. A. 
 
 WITH 
 
 A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 
 
 A Garden is the purest of human pleasures, it is the greatest refresh- 
 ment to the spirits of man j without which buildings and palaces are 
 but gross liandy-works. And a man shall ever see, that when ages 
 grow to civility and elegancy, men come to build stately, sooner than 
 to garden finely ; as if gardening were the greater perfection. 
 
 LORD bacon’s essays. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY CHARLES WHITTINGHAM, DEAN STREET, 
 
 FOR M. JONES, 1, PATERNOSTER ROW; 
 
 J. HATCHARD, PICCADILLY; CHAPPLE, PALL MALL; R. DUTTON, 
 45, GRACECIIURCH STREET ; AND D. PRICE, 25, WALBROOK. 
 
 1803. 
 
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THE 
 
 LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM MASON, M. A. 
 
 This excellent writer has been So many 
 years in the observation of the public ; his 
 works have been so universally read, and so 
 generally approved, that curiosity is natu-^ 
 rally excited to enquire after those circum- 
 stances in his life, which distinguish him 
 from the rest of the world, and give him a 
 pre-eminence over the majority of his con- 
 temporaries, and, at least, an equality with 
 the best of them. 
 
 The place of his birth is the same which 
 derived celebrity from having produced ano- 
 ther patriotic poet, the celebrated Andrew 
 Marvell, This Mr. Mason himself men- 
 tions, in his admirable Ode to Indepen- 
 
IV 
 
 DENCE, the scene of which he has laid at his 
 native town : 
 
 Here, on my native shore reclin’d. 
 
 While Silence rules this midnight hour, 
 
 I woo thee, Goddess ! on my musing mind 
 Descend, propitious power ! 
 
 Again : 
 
 As now o’er this lone beach I stray, 
 
 Thy fav’rite swain oft stole along. 
 
 And artless wove his Dorian lay. 
 
 Far from the busy throng. 
 
 The favourite swain here alluded to was 
 the incorruptible patriot of Charles the Se- 
 cond’s time, who was born at Kingston upon 
 Hull, where Mr. Mason likewise began his 
 life ; to which he alludes in the following lines : 
 
 ‘‘ My infant eyes. 
 
 First open’d on that bleak and boist’rous shore, 
 
 “ Where Humber weds the nymphs of Trent and Ouse 
 To his and Ocean’s Tritons : thence full soon 
 My youth retir’d, and left the busy strand 
 ‘‘ To commerce and to care. In Margaret’s grove, 
 
 “ Beneath whose time-worn shade old Camus sleeps. 
 Was next my tranquil station : Science there 
 “ Sat musing ; and to those that lov’d the lore 
 Pointed, with mystic wand, to truths involv’d 
 In geometric symbols, scorning those. 
 
 Perchance too much, who woo’d the thriftless muse.” 
 Vide English Garden. 
 
V 
 
 About the year 1725 or 1726, the father 
 of our poet was a clergyman of that town ; 
 where his son received the early rudiments of 
 his education. At a proper age he was sent to 
 Cambridge, and admitted a scholar of St. 
 John’s College. Here he took the degree of 
 Batchelor of Arts, and produced some of his 
 earliest works. The first piece which presents 
 itself is a poem called II Bellicoso, writ- 
 ten in 1744, but not printed until some years 
 afterwards. About the same time, the death 
 of Mr. Pope (30th May, 1744) gave occa- 
 sion to that excellent performance, Mus^us, 
 which fixed our poet’s reputation on the 
 firmest basis, and was the means of intro- 
 ducing him to the notice of Mr. Gray. 
 
 It w^as in the year 1747, when this ac- 
 quaintance began, Some very juvenile imi- 
 tations of Milton’s Juvenile Poems, which our 
 poet had wTitten a year or two before, and of 
 w^hich the Monody on Mr. Pope’s Death w^as 
 the principal, Mr. Gray then, at the request 
 of one of his friends, was so obliging as to 
 revise.” To the credit of both these gen- 
 
VI 
 
 tlemen, the friendship thus commenced, 
 continued, without abatement, until they 
 were divided by death. 
 
 In 1748, he printed his poem entituled, 
 Isis, which, being an attack on the univer- 
 sity of Oxford, was answered by Mr. Whar- 
 ton, in a poem called, the Triumphs of 
 Isis. In 1749, he was elected Fellow of 
 Pembroke Hall, through the interest of his 
 friend Mr. Gray. In 1754 he took orders, 
 and through the patronage of the Earl of 
 Holderness was appointed Chaplain to the 
 King, and presented to the valuable living of 
 Aston. He afterwards obtained the precen- 
 torship of York, which leading his mind to 
 church music, he published a small volume 
 on that subject. His intimate friend Gray, 
 left him one of his joint executors, with 
 Dr. Browne, Master of Pembroke Hall, who, 
 together with R. Stonehewer, Auditor of the 
 Exchequer, at their joint expence raised a 
 monument to the memory of their departed 
 friend in Westminster Abbey j to which 
 Mason furnished the following epitaph t 
 
Vll 
 
 No more the Grecian muse unrivalPd reigns. 
 To Britain let the nations homage pay 1 
 She boasts a Homer^s fire in Milton’s strains, 
 A Pindai’’s rapture in the lyre of Gray. 
 
 He likewise wrote The Life of Gray, in 
 4 vols. 8vo. 
 
 In his sacerdotal office he behaved with 
 exemplary propriety, and was much esteemed 
 as a preacher. 
 
 In 1765, he married a lady possessing 
 every beauty of mind and person, who died 
 in 1767, at Bristol Hot Wells, of a decline. 
 This sorrowful event produced the follow- 
 ing epitaph: 
 
 Take, holy earth, all that my soul holds dear; 
 
 Take that best gift which Heav’n so lately gave. 
 
 To Bristol’s fount I bore with trembling care 
 
 Her faded form ; she bow’d to taste the wave, 
 
 And died. Does youth, does beauty read the line, 
 
 Does sympathetic fear their breast alarm ? 
 
 Speak, dead Maria ! breathe a strain divine ! 
 
 Ev’n from the grave thou shalt have power to charm^. 
 
 Bid them be chaste, be innocent like thee; 
 
 Bid them in duty’s sphere as meekly move ; 
 
 And if so fair, from vanity as free. 
 
 As firm in friendship, and as fond in love ; 
 
vin 
 
 Tell them, tho’ ’tis an awful thing to die, 
 
 (’Twas even to thee) yet the dread path once trod, 
 Heavhi lifts its everlasting portals high. 
 
 And bids “ the pure in heart behold their God.” 
 
 He was at one period a zealous Whig, but 
 at the close of life his warmth abated, and 
 the horrors of the French revolution made 
 him less partial to levelling principles. — 
 While getting out of his carriage his foot 
 slipped, and he received a bruise, of which 
 he took no notice for some days, but a mor- 
 tification ensued, of which he died, April 5, 
 1797^. His Elfrida and Caractacus 
 are esteemed the best of his performances. 
 He translated into English verse Du Fres- 
 noy’s Art of Painting, to which Sir 
 Joshua Reynolds added valuable notes. 
 
 Shortly will be published, a volume of Poems, by the 
 same author, which will contain his Elfrida, Carac- 
 tacus, (fcc. &c, (printed uniform with this work.) 
 
THE 
 
 ENGLISH GARDEN. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 lo thee, divine Simplicity ! to thee. 
 
 Best arbitress of 'svhat is good and fair. 
 
 This verse belongs. O, as it freely flows. 
 
 Give it thy powers of pleasing ; else in vain 
 It strives to teach the rules, from Nature drawn, 
 Which all should follow, if they wish to add 
 To Nature^s careless graces ; loveliest then 
 When, o^er her form, thine easy skill has taught 
 The robe of Spring in ampler folds to flow. 
 
 Haste, goddess ! to the woods, the lawns, the vales. 
 That lie in rude luxuriance, and but wait 
 Thy call to bloom with beauty. I, meanwhile. 
 Attendant on thy state serene, will mark 
 Its faery progress, wake the accordant string. 
 
 And tell how far, beyond the transient glare 
 Of fickle fashion, or of formal art. 
 
 Thy flowery works with charm perennial please. 
 
 £ 
 
2 
 
 Ye too, ye sister powers ! that at my birth 
 Auspicious smird, and o^er my cradle drop^d 
 Those magic seeds of Fancy, which produce 
 A PoeFs feeling, and a Painter^s eye. 
 
 Come to your votary^s aid ; for well ye know 
 How soon my infant accents lisped the rhyme. 
 
 How soon my hands the mimic colours spread. 
 And vainly hopM to snatch a double wreath 
 From Famous unfading laurel ; arduous aim. 
 
 Yet not inglorious : nor perchance devoid 
 Of fruitful use to this fair argument ; 
 
 If so with lenient smiles, ye deign to cheer. 
 
 At * this sad hour, my desolated soul. 
 
 For deem not ye that I resume the lyre 
 To court the world^s applause ; my years mature 
 Have leariiM to slight the toy. No, ^tis to sooth 
 That agony of heart, which they alone. 
 
 Who best have lovM, who best have been belovM, 
 Can feel, or pity ; sympathy severe ! 
 
 Which she too felt, when on her pallid lip 
 The last farewell hung trembling, and bespoke 
 A wish to linger here, and bless the arms 
 She left for heaven. She died, and heaven is her^s ! 
 Be mine, the pensive solitary balm 
 
 ^ This poem was begun in the year 1767, not long after 
 the death of the amiable person here mentioned. 
 
3 
 
 That recollection yields. Yes, angel pure ! 
 
 While Memory holds her seat, thine image still 
 Shall reign, shall triumph there ; and when, as now. 
 Imagination forms a nymph divine 
 To lead the fluent strain, thy modest blush. 
 
 Thy mild demeanor, thy unpractisM smile 
 Shall grace that nymph, and sweet Simplicity 
 Be dress'd (ah, meek Maria !) in thy charms. 
 
 Begin the song ! and ye of Albion's sons 
 Attend ; ye freeborn, ye ingenuous few. 
 
 Who heirs of competence, if not of wealth. 
 Preserve that vestal purity of soul. 
 
 Whence genuine taste proceeds. To you, blest 
 youths, 
 
 I sing ; whether in academic groves 
 Studious ye rov^, or, fraught with learning's stores. 
 Visit the Latian plain, fond to transplant 
 Those arts which Greece did, with her liberty. 
 Resign to Rome. Yet know, the art I sing 
 Ev'n there ye shall not learn ; Rome knew it not 
 While Rome was free ; ah ! hope not then to find 
 In slavish, superstitious Rome, the fair 
 Remains. Meanwhile, of old and classic aid, 
 
 Tho' fruitless be the search, your eyes entranc'd 
 Shall catch those glowing scenes, thatj taught a 
 Claude 
 
To grace his canvass with Hesperian huesy 
 And scenes like these, on Memory ^s tablet drawn^ 
 Bring back to Britain ; there give local form 
 To each idea, and, if Nature lend 
 Materials fit of torrent, rock, and shade. 
 
 Produce new Tivolis. But learn to rein 
 Thy skill within the limit she allows. 
 
 Great Nature scorns control : she will not bear 
 One beauty foreign to the spot or soil 
 She gives thee to adorn ; ^tis thine alone 
 To mend, not change her features. Does her hand 
 Stretch forth a level lawn ? ah, hope not thou 
 To lift the nipuntain there. Do mountains frown 
 Around ? ah, wish not th^re the level lawn. 
 
 Yet she permits thine art, discreetly usM, 
 
 To smooth or scoop the rugged and the plain. 
 
 But dare with caution ; else expect, bold man ! 
 The injur’d Genius of the place to rise 
 In self-defence, and, like some giant fiend 
 That frowns in Gothic story, swift destroy 
 By night, the puny labours of thy day. 
 
 What then must he attempt, whom niggard fate 
 Has fixt in such an inauspicious spot 
 As bears no trace of beauty ? must he sit 
 Dull and inactive in the desert waste. 
 
 Since Nature there no happy feature wears 
 
To wake and meet his skill ? Believe the Muse, 
 jShe does not know that inauspicious spot 
 Where Beauty is thus niggard of her store ; 
 Believe the Muse, thro^ this terrestrial vast 
 The seeds of grace are sown, profusely sown, 
 Ev'n where we least may hope ; the desert hills 
 Will hear the call of Art ; the vallies dank 
 Obey her just behests, and smile with charms 
 Congenial to the soil, and all its own. 
 
 For tell me where’s the desert ? there alone 
 Where man resides not ; or if chance resides. 
 
 He is not there the man his Maker form’d. 
 Industrious man, by heav’n’s first law ordain’d 
 To earn his food by labour. In the waste 
 Place thou that man with his primaeval arms. 
 
 His plough-share, and his spade, nor shalt thou long 
 Impatient wait a change ; the waste shall smile 
 With yellow harvests ; what was barren heath 
 Shall soon be verdant mead. Now then arise. 
 Now let thine art, in union with his toil. 
 
 Exert its powers, and give, with varying skill. 
 
 The soil, already tam’d, its finish’d grace. 
 
 Nor less obsequious to the hand of toil. 
 
 If Fancy guide that hand, will the dank vale 
 Receive improvement meet ; but Fancy here 
 
6 
 
 Must lead, not follow Labour ; she must tell 
 In what peculiar place the soil shall rise. 
 
 Where sink ; prescribe what form each sluice shall 
 wear. 
 
 And how direct its course ; whether to spread 
 Broad as a lake, or, as a river pent 
 By fringed banks, weave its irriguous way 
 Thro^ lawn and shade alternate ; but if she 
 Preside not o^er the task, the narrow drains 
 Will run in tedious parallel, or cut 
 Each other in sharp angles ; call her then 
 Swift to thine aid, ere the remorseless spade 
 Too deeply wound the bosom of the soil. 
 
 Yet, in this lowly site, where all that charms 
 Within itself must charm, hard is the task 
 Imposed on Fancy. Hence with idle fear ! 
 
 Is she not Fancy ? and can Fancy fail 
 In sweet delusions, in concealments apt. 
 
 And wild creative power ? She cannot fail. 
 
 And yet, full oft, when her creative power. 
 
 Her apt concealments, her delusions sweet. 
 
 Have been profusely lavishM ; when her groves 
 Have shot, with vegetative vigour strong, 
 
 Ev^n to their wishM maturity ; when Jove 
 Has ranged the changeful seasons o^er her lawns. 
 And each has left a blessing as it rolfd ; 
 
7 
 
 Ev’n then, perchance, some vain fastidious eye " 
 Shall rove, unmindful of surrounding charms. 
 
 And ask for prospect. Stranger ! ^tis not here* 
 
 Go seek it on some garish turret^s height. 
 
 Seek it on Richmond's, or on Windsor’s brow ; 
 There, gazing on the gorgeous vale below. 
 Applaud besure, with fashion’d pomp of phrase 
 The good and bad, which, in profusion, there 
 That gorgeous vale exhibits. Here, meanwhile 
 Ev’n in the dull, unseen, unseeing dell. 
 
 Thy taste contemns, shall Contemplation imp 
 Her eagle plumes ; the Poet here shall hold 
 Sweet converse with his Muse ; the curious sage. 
 Who comments on great Nature’s ample tome. 
 Shall find that volume here. For here are caves. 
 Where rise those gurgling rills, that sing the song 
 Which Contemplation loves ; here shadowy glades. 
 Where thro’ the tremulous foliage darts the ray. 
 That gilds the Poet’s day-dream ; here the turf 
 Teems with the vegetating race, the air 
 Is peopled with the insect tribes, that float 
 Upon the noontide beam, and call the sage 
 To number and to name them. Nor if here 
 The painter comes, shall his enchanting art 
 Go back without a boon ; for Nature here 
 Has, with her living colours, form’d a scene 
 Which Ruisdale best might rival. Crystal lakes. 
 
8 
 
 O’er which the giant oak, himself a grore. 
 
 Flings his romantic branches, and beholds 
 His reverend image in th’ expanse below. 
 
 If distant hills be wanting, yet our eye 
 Forgets the want, and with delighted gaze 
 Rests on the lovely foreground ; there applauds 
 The art, which, varying forms and blending hues. 
 Gives that harmonious force of shade and light. 
 Which makes the landscape perfect. Art like this 
 Is only art, all else abortive toil. 
 
 Thou then, the docile pupil of my song, 
 
 Attend ; and learn how much on Painting’s aid 
 Thy sister art depends, learn now its laws : 
 
 Their practice may demand a future strain. 
 
 Of Nature’s various scenes the painter culls 
 That for his fav’rite theme, where the fair whole 
 Is broken into ample parts, and bold ; 
 
 Where to the eye three well-mark’d distances 
 Spread their peculiar colouring. Vivid green. 
 Warm brown and black opake the foreground 
 bears 
 
 Conspicuous ; sober olive coldly marks 
 The second distance ; thence the third declines 
 In softer blue, or, less’ning still, is lost 
 In faintest purple. When thy taste is call’d 
 
9 
 
 To adorn a scene whei*e Nature^s self presents 
 All these distinct gradations, then rejoice 
 As does the painter, and like him apply 
 Thy colours ; plant thou on each separate part 
 Its proper foliage. Chief, for there thy skill 
 Has its chief scope, enrich with all the hues 
 That flowers, that shrubs, that trees can yield, the 
 sides 
 
 Of that fair path, from whence our sight is led 
 Gradual to view the whole. Wherever thou wind^st 
 That path, take heed between the scene, and eye. 
 To vary and to mix thy chosen greens. 
 
 Here for a while, with cedar or with larch. 
 
 That from the ground spread their close foliage, hide 
 The view entire. Then o^er some lowly tuft. 
 Where rose and woodbine bloom, permit its 
 charms 
 
 To burst upon the sight ; now thro^ a copse 
 Of beech, that rear their smooth and stately trunks. 
 Admit it partially, and half exclude. 
 
 And half reveal its graces ; in this path. 
 
 How long soever the wanderer roves, each step 
 Shall wake fresh beauties ; each short point present 
 A different picture, new, and yet the same. 
 
 Yet some there are who deem this precept vain. 
 And fell each tree that intercepts the scene. 
 
10 
 
 O great Poussin ! O Nature^s darling, Claude ! 
 What if some rash and sacrilegious hand 
 Tore from your canvass those umbrageous pines 
 That frown in front, and give each azure hill 
 The charm of contrast ! Nature suffers here 
 Like outrage, and bewails a beauty lost. 
 
 Which Time with tardy hand shall late restore. 
 Yet here the spoiler rests not ; see him rise 
 Warm from his devastation, to improve. 
 
 For so he calls it, yonder champaign wide. 
 
 There on each bolder brow in shapes acute 
 Hhs fence he scatters ; there the Scottish fir 
 In murky file lifts his inglorious head. 
 
 And blots the fair horizon. So should art 
 Improve thy penciPs savage dignity, 
 
 Salvator ! if where, far as eye can pierce. 
 
 Rock piPd on rock, thy Alpine heights retire. 
 
 She flung her random foliage, and disturbM 
 The deep repose of the majestic scene. 
 
 This deed were impious. Ah, forgive the thought. 
 Thou more than painter, more than poet ! He, 
 Alone thy equal, who was Fancy^s child. 
 
 Does then the song forbid the planter's hand 
 To clothe the distant hills, and veil with woods 
 Their barren summits ? No, but it forbids 
 All poverty of clothing. Rich the robe. 
 
11 
 
 And amply let it flow, that Nature wears 
 On her thronM eminence : wherever she takes 
 Her horizontal march, pursue her step 
 With sweeping train of forest ; hill to hill 
 Unite with prodigality of shade. 
 
 There plant thy elm, thy chesnut ; nourish there 
 Those sapling oaks, which, at Britannia^s call. 
 May heave their trunks mature into the main> 
 And float the bulwarks of her liberty : 
 
 But if the fir, give it its station meet. 
 
 Place it an outguard to th^ assailing north. 
 
 To shield the infant scions, till possest 
 Of native strength, they learn alike to scorn 
 The blast and their protectors. FosterM thus. 
 The cradled hero gains from female care 
 His future vigor ; but that vigor felt. 
 
 He springs indignant from his nurse^s arms. 
 
 He nods the plumy crest, he shakes the spear. 
 And is that awful thing which heaven ordainM 
 The scourge of tyrants, and his country's pride. 
 
 If then thou still art dubious how to treat 
 Nature^s neglected features, turn thine eye 
 To those, the masters of correct design. 
 
 Who, from her vast variety, have culf d 
 The loveliest, boldest parts, and new arrange ; 
 Yet, as herself appro vM, herself inspir’d. 
 
12 
 
 In their immortal works thou ne’er shalt find 
 Dull uniformity, contrivance quaint. 
 
 Or labour’d littleness ; but contrasts broad. 
 
 And careless lines, whose undulating form 
 Plays thro’ the varied canvass ; these transplant 
 Again on Nature ; take thy plastic spade. 
 
 It is thy pencil ; take thy seeds, thy plants. 
 They are thy colours ; and by these repay 
 With interest every charm she lent thy art. 
 
 But, while I thus to Imitation’s realm 
 Direct thy steps, deem not I lead thee wrong ; 
 Nor ask, why I forget great Nature’s fount. 
 
 And bring thee not the bright inspiring cup 
 From her original spring ? Yet, if thou ask’st. 
 Thyself shalt give the answer. Tell me why 
 Did Raffael steal, when his creative hand 
 Imag’d the Seraphim, ideal grace 
 And dignity supernal from that store 
 Of Attic sculpture, which the ruthless Goth 
 Spar’d in his headlong fury ? Tell me this ; 
 And then confess that beauty best is taught 
 By those, the favor’d few, whom heav’n has lent 
 The power to seize, select, and reunite 
 Her loveliest features ; and of these to form 
 One archetype complete of sovereign grace. 
 Here Nature sees her fairest forms more fair ; 
 
13 
 
 Owns them her own, yet owns herself excelled 
 By what herself producM. Here Art and she 
 Embrace ; connubial Juno smiles benign, 
 
 And from the warm embrace perfection springs. 
 
 Rouse, then, each latent energy of soul 
 To clasp ideal beauty. Proteus-like, 
 
 Think not the changeful nymph will long elude 
 Thy chase, or with reluctant coyness frown. 
 Inspir'd by her, thy happy art shall learn 
 To melt in fluent curves whatever is straight. 
 Acute, or parallel. For, these unchang'd. 
 Nature and she disdain the formal scene. 
 
 'Tis their demand, that ev'ry step of Rule 
 Be quite eras'd. For know, their ev'ry charm 
 Springs from variety ; but all the boast 
 Of Rule is irksome Uniformity. 
 
 That end to effect we own the cube, or cone. 
 Are well employ'd ; but fair Variety 
 Lives only where she undulates and sports 
 In many a winding train. As Nature then 
 Avoids, disdains, abhors all equal lines. 
 
 So Mechanism pursues, admires, adores. 
 
 Hence is their enmity ; and sooner hope 
 With hawk and dove to draw the Cyprian car, 
 Thau reconcile these jarring principles. 
 
14 
 
 Where then, alas ! where shall the Dryads fly 
 That haunt yon ancient Vista ? Pity, sure. 
 
 Will spare the long cathedral isle of shade 
 In which they sojourn ; Taste were sacrilege. 
 
 If, lifting there the axe, it darM invade 
 Those spreading oaks that in fraternal files 
 Have paired for centuries, and heard the strains 
 Of SiDNEY^s, nay, perchance, of Subry^s reed. 
 Heavens ! must they fall ? They must, their doom 
 is past. 
 
 None shall escape ; unless mechanic skill. 
 
 To save her offspring, rouse at our command ; 
 And, where we bid her move, with engine huge. 
 Each ponderous trunk, the ponderous trunk there 
 move, 
 
 A work of difficulty and danger try’d. 
 
 Nor oft successful found. But if it fails. 
 
 Thine axe must do its office. Cruel task. 
 
 Yet needful. Trust me, tho^ I bid thee strike. 
 
 Reluctantly I bid thee ; for my soul 
 
 Holds dear an antient oak, nothing more dear. 
 
 It is an antient friend. Stay, then, thine hand. 
 And try by saplings tall, discreetly placM 
 Before, between, behind, in scatter’d groups. 
 
 To break th’ obdurate line. So may’st thou save 
 A chosen few ; and yet, alas, but few 
 
15 
 
 Of these, the old protectors of the plain. 
 
 Yet shall these few give to thy opening lawn 
 That shadowy pomp, which only they can give ; 
 For parted now, in patriarchal pride. 
 
 Each tree becomes the father of a tribe ; 
 
 And, o^er the stripling foliage, rising round. 
 Towers with parental dignity supreme. 
 
 And yet, my Albion ! in that fair domain 
 Which Ocean made thy dowry, when his love 
 Tempestuous tore thee from reluctant Gaul, 
 
 And bade thee be his Queen, there still remains 
 Full many a lovely unfrequented wild. 
 
 Where change like this is needless ; where no lines 
 Of hedge-row, avenue, or of platform square 
 Demand destruction. In thy fair domain. 
 
 Yes, my lovM Albion ! many a glade is found. 
 The haunt of Wood-gods only : where, if Art 
 E^er darM to tread, ^twas with unsandalM foot. 
 Printless, as if the. place were holy ground. 
 
 And there are scenes, where, tho^ she whilom trod. 
 Led by the worst of guides, fell Tyranny, 
 
 And ruthless Superstition, we now trace 
 Her footsteps with delight ; and pleasM revere 
 What once we should have hated. But to Time, 
 Not her, the praise is due : his gradual touch 
 Has moulder^ into beauty many a tower. 
 
16 
 
 Which, when it frown'd with all its battlements. 
 Was only terrible : and many a fane 
 Monastic, which, when deck'd with all its spires. 
 Serv'd but to feed some pamper'd Abbot's pride. 
 And awe th' unletter’d vulgar. Generous youth ! 
 Whoe'er thou art, that listen'st to my lay. 
 
 And feel'st thy soul assent to what I sing. 
 
 Happy art thou if thou can'st call thine own 
 Such scenes as these, where Nature and where 
 Time 
 
 Have work'd congenial ; where a scatter'd host 
 Of antique oaks darken thy sidelong hills ; 
 
 While, rushing thro' their branches, rifted cliffs 
 Dart their white heads, and glitter thro' the gloom ' 
 More happy still, if one superior rock 
 Bear on its brow the shiver'd fragment huge 
 Of some old Norman fortress ; happier far. 
 
 Ah, then most happy, if thy vale below 
 Wash, with the crystal coolness of its rills. 
 
 Some mould'ring abbey's ivy-vested wall. 
 
 O how unlike the scene my fancy forms. 
 
 Did Folly heretofore with Wealth conspire 
 To plan that formal, dull, disjointed scene. 
 
 Which once was call'd a Garden. Britain still 
 Bears on her breast full many a hideous wound 
 Given by the cruel pair, when, borrowing aid 
 
17 
 
 From geometric skill, they vainly strove 
 By line, by plummet, and unfeeling sheers, 
 
 * To form with verdure what the builder formed 
 
 * Although this seems to be the principle upon which 
 this false taste was founded, yet the error was detected by 
 one of our first writers upon architecture. I shall tran- 
 scribe the passage, which is the more remarkable as it came 
 from the quaint pen of Sir Henry Wotton : “ I must note 
 “ (says he) a certain contrariety between building and gar- 
 “ dening: for as fabrics should be regular, so gardens should 
 ‘‘ be irregular, or at least cast into a very wild regularity, 
 “ To exemplify my conceit, I have seen a garden, for the 
 “ manner perchance incomparable, into which the first 
 access was a high walk like a terrace, from whence 
 “ might be taken a general view of the whole plot below, 
 “ but rather in a delightful confusion, than with any plain 
 “ distinction of the pieces. From this the beholder, de- 
 “ scending many steps, was afterwards conveyed again by 
 “ several mountings and valings, to various entertainments 
 “ of his scent and sight; which I shall not need to de- 
 “ cribe, for that were poetical : let me only note this, 
 ‘‘ that every one of these diversities was as if he had been 
 magically transported into a new garden.” Were the 
 terrace and the steps omitted, this description would seem 
 to be almost entirely conformable to our present ideas of 
 ornamental planting. The passage which follows is not less 
 worthy of our notice. “ But though other countries have 
 “ more benefit of the sun than we, and thereby more pro- 
 “ perly tied to contemplate this delight; yet have I seen 
 “ in our own, a delicate and diligent curiosity, surely with- 
 out parallel among foreign nations, namely, in the gar- 
 c 
 
18 
 
 With stone. Egregious madness ! yet pursued 
 With pains unwearied, with expence unsumm’d. 
 And science doating. Hence the sidelong walls 
 Of shaven yew ; the holly^s prickly arms. 
 Trimmed into high arcades ; the tonsile box 
 Wove, in mosaic mode of many a curl. 
 
 Around the figurM carpet of the lawn ; 
 
 Hence, too, deformities of harder cure. 
 
 The terrace mound uplifted ; the long line 
 Deep delvM of flat canal ; and all that toil, 
 
 den of Sir Henry Fanshaw, at his seat in Ware Park ; 
 ** where, I well remember, he did so precisely examine 
 “ the tinctures and seasons of his flowers, that in their set- 
 tings, th^ inwardest of which that were to come up at 
 “ the same time, should be always a little darker than the 
 “ utmost, and so serve them for a kind of gentle shadow.” 
 This seems to be the very same species of improvement 
 which Mr. Kent valued himself for inventing, in later 
 times, and of executing, not indeed with flowers, but with 
 flowering shrubs and evergreens, in his more finished 
 pieces of scenery. The method of producing which effect, 
 has been described with great precision and judgment by a 
 late ingenious writer. (See Observations on Modern Gar- 
 dening, sect. 14th, 15th, and 16th). It may, however be 
 doubted whether Sir Henry Fanshaw’s garden were not too 
 delicate and diligent a curiosity, since its panegyrist con- 
 cludes the whole with telling us, that it was “ like a piece 
 not of Nature, but of Art.” See Ueliqnice Wottoniance, 
 page 64, edit. 4th. 
 
19 
 
 Misled by tasteless fashion, could atchieve 
 To mar fair Nature’s lineaments divine. 
 
 Long was the night of error, nor dispell’d 
 By him that rose at learning’s earliest dawn. 
 Prophet of unborn Science. On thy realm. 
 Philosophy ! his sovereign lustre spread, 
 
 * Yet did he deign to light with casual glance 
 
 ^ Lord Bacon in the 46th of his essays, describes what 
 he calls the platform of a princely garden. If the reader com- 
 pares this description with that which Sir William Temple 
 has given in his essay, entituled. The Gardens of Epicurus, 
 written in a subsequent age, he will find the superiority of 
 the former very apparent; for though both of them are 
 much obscured by the false taste of the times in which 
 they were written, yet the vigour of Lord Bacon’s genius 
 breaks frequently through the cloud, and gives us a very 
 clear display of what the real merit of gardening would be 
 when its true principles were ascertained. For instance, 
 out of thirty acres which he allots for the whole of his plea- 
 sure-ground, he selects the first four for a lawn, without 
 any intervention of plot or parterre, “because,” says he, 
 “ nothing is more pleasant to the eye than green grass 
 kept finely shorn.” And “ as for the making of knots 
 or figures, with diverse coloured earths, that they may 
 lie under the windows of the house, on that side which 
 the garden stands, they be but toys; you may see as 
 good sights many times in tarts.” Sir William Temple, 
 
 ’ A new and elegant edition of Lord Bacon’s Essays, printed uniform 
 with this work, 6s, boards, with his Life and Portrait, 
 
20 
 
 The wilds of taste. Yes, sagest Verulam, 
 
 ^Twas thine to banish from the royal groves 
 Each childish vanity of crisped knot 
 
 oil the contrary, tells us, that in the garden at Moor Park, 
 which was his model of perfection, the first inlet to the 
 W'hole was a very broad gravel walk, garnished with a row 
 of laurels, which looked like orange-trees, and was termi- 
 nated at each end by a summer-house. The parterre, or 
 piincipal garden, which makes the second part in each of 
 their descriptions, it must be owned, is equally devoid of 
 simplicity in them both. “ The garden (says his Lordship) 
 is best to be square, encompassed with a stately arched 
 “ hedge, the arches to be upon carpenters’ work; over 
 “ every arch a little belly, enough to receive a Cage of 
 ‘‘ birds ; and, over every space between the arches, some 
 other little figure, with broad plates of round coloured 
 “ glass, gilt, for the sun to play upon.” It would have 
 been difficult for Sir William to make his more fantastic ; 
 he has, however, not made it more natural. The third 
 part, which Lord Bacon calls the Heath, and the other the 
 Wilderness, is that in which the genius of Lord Bacon is 
 the most visible; “ for this,” says he, “ I wish to be 
 framed as much as may be to a natural wildness.” And 
 accordingly, he gives us a description of it in the most 
 agreeable and picturesque terms, insomuch, that it seems 
 less the work of his own fancy, than a delineation of that 
 ornamental scenery which had no existence till above a 
 century after it w^as written. Such, when he descended to 
 matters of mere elegance (for when we speak of Lord Ba^ 
 con, to treat of these was to descend) were the amazing 
 powers of his universal genius. 
 
21 
 
 And sculptur’d foliage, to the lawn restore 
 Its ample space, and bid it feast the sight 
 With verdure pure, unbroken, unabridg’d ; 
 
 For green is to the eye, what to the ear 
 Is harmony, or to the smell the rose. 
 
 So taught the sage, taught a degenerate reign 
 What in Eliza’s golden day was taste. 
 
 Not but the mode of that romantic age. 
 
 The age of tourneys, triumphs, and quaint masques. 
 Glar’d with fantastic pageantry, which dimm’d 
 The sober eye of truth, and dazzled ev’n 
 The sage himself : witness his arched hedge. 
 
 In pillar’d state by carpentry upborne. 
 
 With colour’d mirrors deck’d, and caged birds : 
 But, when our step has pac’d his proud parterres. 
 And reach’d the heath, then Nature glads our eye. 
 Sporting in all her lovely carelessness. 
 
 There smiles in varied tufts the velvet rose. 
 
 There flaunts the gadding woodbine, swells the 
 ground 
 
 In gentle hillocks, and around its sides 
 
 Thro’ blossom’d shades the secret pathway steals. 
 
 Thus, with a poet’s power, the sage’s pen 
 Pourtray’d that nicer negligence of scene. 
 
 Which Taste approves. While he, delicious swain. 
 
22 
 
 Who tun’d his oaten pipe by MuIIa’s stream. 
 Accordant touch’d the stops in Dorian mood ; 
 What time he ’gan to paint the fairy vale, 
 
 Where stands the fane of Venus. Well I ween 
 That then, if ever, Colin, thy fond hand 
 Did steep its pencil in the well-fount clear 
 Of true simplicity, and * call’d in Art 
 Only to second Nature, and supply 
 All that the nymph forgot, or left forlorn.” 
 
 Yet what avail’d the song, or what avail’d 
 Ev’n thine, thou chief of bards, whose mighty 
 mind. 
 
 With inward light irradiate, mirror-like 
 Receiv’d, and to mankind with ray reflex 
 The sov’reign Planter’s primal work display’d, 
 f That work, where not nice Art in curious 
 knots. 
 
 But Nature boon pour’d forth on hill and dale 
 Flowers worthy of Paradise ; while all around 
 
 ^ See Spencer’s Fairy Queen, book iv. canto x. the pas- 
 sage immediately alluded to is in the 21st stanza. 
 
 For all that Nature, by her mother wit. 
 
 Could frame in earth and form of substance base 
 Was there; and all that Nature did omit, 
 
 Art (playing Nature’s second part) supplied it. 
 
 'I' See Milton’s inimitable description of the Garden of 
 Eden. Paradise Lost, book iv. part of which is here in- 
 serted. 
 
23 
 
 Umbrageous grots, and caves of cool recess. 
 And murmuring waters down the slope dis- 
 persed. 
 
 Or held, by fringed banks, in crystal lakes. 
 Compose a rural seat of various view/^ 
 
 ^Twas thus great Nature^s herald blazoned high 
 That fair original impress, which she bore 
 In state sublime, e^er miscreated Art, 
 
 Offspring of Sin and Shame, the banner seizM, 
 And with adulterate pageantry defifd. 
 
 Yet vainly, Milton, did thy voice proclaim 
 These her primaeval honours ; still she lay 
 DefacM, deflowerM, full many a ruthless year. 
 Alike, when Charles, the abject tool of France, 
 Came back to smile his subjects into slaves ; 
 
 Or Belgic William, with his warrior frown. 
 
 Coldly declarM them free ; in fetters still 
 The goddess pinM, by both alike opprest. 
 
 Go to the proof ! behold what Temple calf d 
 A perfect garden. There thou shalt not find 
 One blade of verdure, but with aching feet 
 From terrace down to terrace shalt descend. 
 
 Step following step, by tedious flight of stairs : 
 
 On leaden platforms now the noon-day sun 
 Shall scorch thee ; now the dank arcades of stone 
 Shall chill thy fervour j happy, if at length 
 
24 
 
 Thou reach the orchard, where * the sparing turf 
 Thro^ equal lines all centring in a point 
 Yields thee a softer tread. And yet full oft 
 O^er Templets studious hour did Truth preside. 
 Sprinkling her lustre oVr his classic page. 
 
 There hear his candor own in fashion^s spite. 
 
 In spite of courtly dullness, hear it own 
 f There is a grace in wild variety 
 
 * The French, at present, seem to be equally sparing of 
 this natural clothing of the earth, although they have done 
 us the honour to adopt our bowling-greens, and to improve 
 upon them. This appears from the following article of the 
 Encyclopedic, translated verbatim. 
 
 Boulingrin. N. S. In gardening is a species of parterre, 
 composed of pieces of divided turf, with borders sloping 
 “ (en glacis) and evergreens at the corners and other 
 parts of it. It is mowed four times a year, to make the 
 ** turf finer. The invention of this kind of partene comes 
 “ from England, as also its name, which is derived from 
 “ houle^ round, and gr/w, fine grass or turf. Boulingrins 
 ure either simple or compound; the simple are all turf, 
 ‘‘ without ornament ; the compound are cut into compart- 
 ‘‘ ments of turf, embroidered with knots, mixed with lit- 
 ‘‘ tie paths, borders of flowers, yew-trees, and flowering 
 “ shrubs. Sand also, of different colours, contributes greatly 
 to their value,’^ 
 
 f The passage here alluded to is as follows : What I 
 
 have said of the best forms of gardens is meant only of 
 such as are in some sort regular ; for there may be other 
 fornu tvholly irre^ularf that may, for ou^ht I know, haw 
 
25 
 
 " Surpassing rule and order.^^ Temple, yes. 
 
 There is a grace, and let eternal wreaths 
 Adorn their brows who fixt its empire here. 
 
 * The Muse shall hail the champions that herself 
 
 “ moi^ beauty than any of the others : but they must owe 
 “ it to some extraordinary dispositions of nature in the 
 “ seat, or some great race of fancy and judgment in the 
 “ contrivance, which may reduce many disagreeing parts 
 “ into some figure which shall yet, upon the whole, be 
 ‘‘ very agreeable. Something of this I have seen in some 
 places, and heard more of it from others who have lived 
 much among the Chinese.” Sir William then gives us a 
 kind of general account of the Chinese taste, and of their 
 Sharawadgi^ and concludes thus : ‘‘ But I should hardly ad- 
 vise any of these attempts in the figure of gardens 
 among us, they are adventures of too hardy atchieve- 
 ment for any common hands ; and though there may be 
 more honour if they succeed well, yet there is more dis- 
 “ honour if they fail, and it is twenty to one they will ; 
 “ whereas, in regular figures, it is hard to make any great 
 “ and remarkable faults.” See Temple’s Miscellanies^ 
 vol. i. page 186. fol. edit. 
 
 * I had before called Bacon the tyophet, and Milton the 
 herald of true taste in Gardening. The former, because in 
 developing the constituent properties of a princely garden, 
 he had largely expatiated upon that adorned natural wild- 
 ness which we now deem the essence of the art. The lat- 
 ter, on account of his having made this natural wildness 
 the leading idea in his exquisite description of Paradise. I 
 here call Addison, Pope, Kent, &c, the champions of this 
 
26 
 
 Led to the fair atchievement. Addison, 
 
 Thou polish^ sage, or shall I call thee bard ? 
 
 I see thee come ; around thy temples play 
 The lambent flames of humour, brightening mild 
 Thy judgment into smiles ; gracious thou com^st. 
 With Satire at thy side, who checks her frotv^n. 
 But not her secret sting. With bolder rage 
 Pope next advances ; his indignant arm 
 Waves the poetic brand o^er Timon^s shades. 
 
 And lights them to destruction ; the fierce blaze 
 Sweeps thro^ each kindred vista ; groves to groves 
 * Nod their fraternal farewell, and expire. 
 
 And now, elate with fair-earnM victory, 
 
 true taste, because they absolutely brought it into execu- 
 tion. The beginning, therefore, of an actual reformation, 
 may be fixed at the time when the Spectator first ap- 
 peared. The reader will find an excellent chapter upon 
 this subject in the Pleasures of the Imagination, published 
 in No. 414 of the Spectator ; and also another paper writ- 
 ten by the same hand. No. 447, but, perhaps, nothing 
 went further towards destroying the absurd taste of clip- 
 ped evergreens, than the fine ridicule upon them in the 
 173d Guardian, written by Mr. Pope. 
 
 * See Mr. Pope’s Epistle on False Taste, inscribed to 
 the Earl of Burlington. Few readers, I suppose, need be 
 informed, that this line alludes to the following couplet : 
 
 Grove nods to grove, each alley has a brother. 
 
 And half the platform just reflects the other. 
 
27 
 
 The bard retires, and on the bank of Thames 
 Erects his flag of triumph ; wild it waves 
 In verdant splendor, and beholds, and hails 
 The King of Rivers, as he rolls along. 
 
 Kent is his bold associate, Kent, who felt 
 The pencils power * ; but, fir’d by higher forms 
 Of beauty, than that pencil knew to paint. 
 Work’d with the living hues that Nature lent. 
 
 And realiz’d his landscapes. Generous he. 
 
 Who gave to painting, what the wayward nymph 
 Refus’d her votary, those Elysian scenes. 
 
 Which would she emulate, her daring hand 
 Must lavish all its energy sublime. 
 
 On thee, too, Southcote, shall the Muse bestow 
 No vulgar praise, for thou to humblest things 
 Could’st give ennobling beauties ; deck’d by thee. 
 The simple farm f eclips’d the garden’s pride, 
 Ev’n as the virgin blush of Innocence, 
 
 * It is said that Mr, Kent frequently declared he caught 
 his taste in gardening from reading the picturesque descrip- 
 tions of Spenser. However this may be, the designs which 
 he made for the works of that poet, are an incontestible 
 proof that they had no effect upon his executive powers as 
 a painter. 
 
 f Mr. Southcote was the introducer, or rather the in- 
 ventor of the Ferme orne ; for it may be presumed, nothing 
 more than the term is of French extraction. 
 
28 
 
 The harlotry of Art. Nor, Shenstone, thou 
 Shalt pass without thy meed, thou son of peace ! 
 Who knew^st, perchance, to harmonize thy shades 
 Still softer than thy song ; yet was that song 
 Nor rude, nor inharmonious, when attunM 
 To pastoral plaint, or tale of slighted love. 
 
 Him, too, the living leader of thy powers. 
 
 Great Nature ! him the Muse shall hail in strains 
 Which antedate the praise to Brown decreed 
 By thine immortal charter ; latest bards 
 Shall pay that tuneful tribute, fitliest paid 
 In strains, the beauty of his scenes inspire. 
 
 Meanwhile, ye youths, whose sympathetic souls 
 Would taste those genuine charms, which faintly 
 smile. 
 
 In my descriptive song, O visit oft 
 The fmishM scenes, that boast the forming hand 
 Of these creative Genii ! feel ye there 
 What Reynolds felt, when first the Vatican 
 Unbar rM her gates, and to his raptur’d eye 
 Gave RafFael’s glories ; feel what Garrick felt. 
 When first he breath’d the soul of Shakspeare’s 
 page. 
 
 So shall your art, if call’d to grace a scene 
 Yet unadorn’d, with taste instinctive give 
 Each grace appropriate ; so your active eye 
 
29 
 
 Shall dart that glance prophetic, which awakes 
 The slumbering wood-nymphs • gladly shall they 
 rise. 
 
 Oread and Dryad, from their verdurous beds. 
 
 And fling their foliage, and arrange their stems. 
 As you and beauty bid : the Naiad train. 
 
 Alike obsequious, from a thousand urns 
 Shall pour their crystalline tide : while, hand in 
 hand, 
 
 Vertumnus and Pomona bring their stores. 
 Fruitage, and flowers of ev^ry blush and scent. 
 Each varied season yields ; to you they bring 
 The fragrant tribute ; ye, with generous hand. 
 Diffuse the blessing wide, till Albion smile 
 One ample theatre of sylvan grace. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST BOOK. 
 
■ ■ ' ■ - ' . 'v-:_;,. :v V-I^./' 
 
 '■ •• • ' ' ,0 A '•; 
 
 , • ... . ■ ; 
 
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 .o> 
 
 • ': -Al 
 
 . .. ■ ■ A; ■ 
 
 .■'■ . y<^''-’-A-vA ?•■.-}> 'V 
 
 - :i 
 
THE 
 
 ENGLISH GARDEN. 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 Hail to the art that teaches Wealth and Pride 
 How to possess their wish, the world^s applause, 
 Unmixt with blame ! that bids Magnificence 
 Abate its meteor glare, and learn to shine 
 Benevolently mild ; like her, the Queen 
 Of Night, who sailing thro’ autumnal skies. 
 
 Gives to the bearded product of the plain 
 Her rip’ning lustre, lingering as she rolls. 
 
 And glancing cool the salutary ray 
 Which fills the fields with plenty *: Hail that art. 
 Ye swains ! for, hark ! with lowings glad, your 
 herds 
 
 Proclaim its influence, wand’ring o’er the lawns 
 
 * This simile, founded on the vulgar error concerning 
 the Harvest Moon, however false in philosophy, may, it is 
 hoped, be admitted in poetry. 
 
32 
 
 Restor’d to them and Nature ; now no more 
 Shall Fortune’s minion rob them of their right. 
 
 Or round his dull domain, with lofty wall. 
 
 Oppose their jocund presence. Gothic Pomp 
 Frowns and retires, his proud behests are scorn’d ; 
 Now Taste, inspir’d by Truth, exalts her voice. 
 And she is heard. Oh, let not man misdeem ; 
 
 Waste is not grandeur ; Fashion ill supplies 
 
 My sacred place, and Beauty scorns to dwell 
 
 Where Use is exil’d.” At the awful sound 
 The terrace sinks spontaneous ; on the green, 
 Broider’d with crisped knots, the tonsile yews 
 Wither and fall ; the fountain dares no more 
 To fling its wasted crystal thro’ the sky. 
 
 But pours salubrious o’er the parched lawn 
 Rills of fertility. Oh best of arts 
 That works this happy change ! true alchymy. 
 Beyond the Rosicrusian boast, that turns 
 Deformity to grace, expence to gain. 
 
 And pleas’d, returns to Earth’s maternal lap 
 The long-lost stores of Amalthea’s horn. 
 
 When such the theme, the poet smiles secure 
 Of candid audience, and with touch assur’d 
 Resumes his reed Ascr^ean ; eager he 
 To ply its warbling stops of various note 
 In Nature’s cause, that Albion’s listening youths. 
 
33 
 
 Inform’d erewhile to scorn the long-drawn lines 
 Of straight formality, alike may scorn 
 Those quick, acute, perplex’d, and tangled paths. 
 That, like the snake crush’d by the sharpen’d 
 spade. 
 
 Writhe in convulsive torture, and full oft. 
 
 Thro’ many a dank and unsunn’d labyrinth. 
 Mislead our step ; till giddy, spent, and foil’d. 
 
 We reach the point where first our race began. 
 These Fancy priz’d erroneous, what time Taste, 
 An infant yet, first join’d her to destroy 
 The measur’d platform ; into false extremes 
 What marvel if they stray’d, as yet unskill’d 
 To mark the form of that peculiar curve. 
 
 Alike averse to crooked and to straight. 
 
 Where sweet simplicity resides ; which Grace 
 And Beauty call their own ; whose lambent flow 
 Charms us at once with symmetry and ease. 
 
 ’Tis Nature’s curve, instinctively she bids 
 Her tribes of being trace it. Down the slope 
 Of yon wide field, see w ith its gradual sw eep. 
 
 The ploughing steers conduct their fallow ridge ; 
 The peasant, driving thro’ each shadowy lane 
 His team, that bends beneath th’ incumbent weight 
 Of laughing Ceres, marks it with his wheel ; 
 
 At night, and morn, the milkmaid’s careless step 
 Has, thro’ yon pasture green, from stile to stile, 
 
 P 
 
34 
 
 Imprest a kindred curve ; the scudding hare 
 Draws to her dew-sprent seat, o’er thymy heaths 
 A path as gently waving ; mark them well ; 
 Compare, pronounce, that, varying but in size. 
 Their forms are kindred all ; go then, convinc’d 
 That Art’s unerring rule is only drawn 
 From Nature’s sacred source ; a rule that guides 
 Her ev’ry toil ; or, if she shape the path. 
 
 Or scoop the lawn, or, gradual, lift the hill. 
 
 For not alone to that embellish’d walk. 
 
 Which leads to ev’ry beauty of the scene. 
 
 It yields a grace, but spreads its influence wide. 
 Prescribes each form of thicket, copse, or wood. 
 Confines the rivulet, and spreads the lake. 
 
 Yet shall this graceful line forget to please. 
 
 If border’d close by sidelong parallels. 
 
 Nor duly mix’d with those opposing curves 
 That give the charm of contrast. Vainly Taste 
 Draws thro’ the grove her path in easiest bend. 
 If, on the margin of its woody sides. 
 
 The measur’d greensward waves in kindred flow 
 Oft let the turf recede, and oft approach. 
 
 With varied breadth, now sink into the shade. 
 Now to the sun its verdant bosom bare. 
 
 As vainly wilt thou lift the gradual hill 
 To meet thy right-hand view, if, to the left. 
 
35 
 
 An equal hill ascends ; in this, and all 
 Be free, be various, as in Nature^s self. 
 
 For in her wildness is there oft an art. 
 
 Or seeming art, which, by position apt. 
 
 Arranges shapes unequal, so to save 
 
 That correspondent poize, which, unpreservM, 
 
 Would mock our gaze with airy vacancy. 
 
 Yet fair Variety, with all her powers. 
 
 Assists the balance ; Against the barren crag 
 She lifts the pasturM slope ; to distant hills 
 Opposes neighboring shades ; and, central oft. 
 Relieves the flatness of the lawn, or lake. 
 
 With studded tuft, or island. So to poize 
 Her objects, mimic Art may oft attain ; 
 
 She rules the foreground ; she can swell or sink 
 Its surface ; here her leafy screen oppose. 
 
 And there withdraw ; here part the varying greens, 
 I And crowd them there in one promiscuous gloom, 
 I As best befits the Genius of the scene. 
 
 I Him then, that sovOreigh Genius, monarch sole, 
 
 I Who from creatioiTs primal day derives 
 ^ His right divine to this his rural throne, 
 
 I Approach with meet obeisance ; at his feet 
 I Let our awM art fall prostrate. They of Ind, 
 j The Tartar tyrants, Tamerlane^s proud race, 
 
36 
 
 Or they in Persia thronM, who shake the rod 
 Of power o^er myriads of enervate slaves. 
 
 Expect not humbler homage to their pride 
 Than does this sylvan despot *. Yet to those 
 Who do him loyal service, who revere 
 His dignity, nor aim, with rebel arms. 
 
 At lawless usurpation, is he found 
 Patient and placable, receives, well pleasM, 
 
 Their tributary treasures, nor disdains 
 To blend them with his own internal store. 
 
 Stands he in blank and desolated state. 
 
 Where yawning crags disjointed, sharp, uncouth. 
 Involve him with pale horror ? in the clefts 
 Thy welcome spade shall heap that fosPring mould 
 Whence sapling oaks may spring ; whence cluster- 
 ing crowds 
 
 Of early underwood shall veil their sides. 
 
 And teach their rugged heads above the shade 
 To tow’r in shapes romantic : nor, around 
 Their flinty roots, shall ivy spare to hang 
 
 * See book i. line 84. See also Mr. Pope’s Epistle to 
 Lord Burlington, line 57. 
 
 Consult the Genius of the place in all, &c. 
 
 A fundamental rule, which is here further enlarged upon 
 from. line 126. 
 
37 
 
 Its gadding tendrils, nor the moss-grown turf. 
 With wild thyme sprinkled, there refuse to spread 
 Its verdure. Awful still, yet not austere. 
 
 The Genius stands ; bold is his port, and wild. 
 
 But not forlorn, nor savage. On some plain 
 Of tedious length, say, are his flat limbs laid ? 
 
 Thy hand shall lift him from the dreary couch. 
 Pillowing his head with swelling hillocks green. 
 While, all around, a forest curtain spreads 
 Its waving folds, and blesses his repose. 
 
 What, if perchance in some prolific soil. 
 
 Where Vegetation strenuous, uncontrollM, 
 
 Has pushM her pow’rs luxuriant, he now pines 
 For air and freedom ? soon thy sturdy axe. 
 
 Amid its intertwisted foliage driven. 
 
 Shall open all his glades, and ingress give 
 To the bright darts of day ; his prison^ rills 
 That darkling crept amid the rustling brakes. 
 
 Shall glitter as they glide, and his dank caves. 
 Free to salubrious zephyrs, cease to weep. 
 Meanwhile his shadowy pomp he still retains. 
 
 His Dryads still attend him ; they alone 
 Of race plebeian banishM, who to crowd 
 Not grace his state, their boughs obtrusive flung. 
 
 But chief consult him ere thou dar'st decide 
 Th’ appropriate bounds of Pleasure and of Use 5 
 
38 
 
 For Pleasure, lawless robber, oft invades 
 Her neighbour's right, and turns to idle waste 
 Her treasures ; curb her then in scanty bounds. 
 Whenever the scene permits that just restraint : 
 The curb restrains not Beauty ; sovereign she 
 Still triumphs, still unites each subject realm. 
 
 And blesses both impartial. Why then fear. 
 
 Lest, if thy fence contract the shaven lawn. 
 
 It does her wrong ? She points a thousand ways 
 And each her own, to cure the needful ill. 
 Wherever it winds, and freely must it wind. 
 
 She bids, at ev^ry bend, thick-blossomM tufts 
 Crowd their inwovenM tendrils ; is there still 
 A void ? Lo Lebanon her cedar lends ! 
 
 Lo all the stately progeny of pines 
 
 Come with their floating foliage richly robM, 
 
 To fill that void ! meanwhile, across the mead 
 The wandering flocks, that browse between the 
 shades. 
 
 Seem oft to pass their bounds ; the dubious eye 
 Decides not if they crop the mead or lawn. 
 
 Browse then your fill, fond foresters ! to you 
 Shall sturdy Labour quit his daily task 
 Well pleasM ; nor longer o^er his useless plots 
 Dip in the dew the splendor of his scythe. 
 
 He, leaning on that scythe, with carols gay 
 
39 
 
 Salutes his fleecy substitutes, that rush 
 In bleating chase to their delicious task. 
 
 And, spreading o^er the plain, with eager teeth 
 Devour it into verdure. Browse your fill. 
 
 Fond foresters ! the soil that you enrich 
 Shall still supply your morn and evening meal 
 With choicest delicates ; whether you choose 
 The vernal blades, that rise with seeded stem 
 * Of hue purpureal ; or the clover white. 
 
 That in a spiked ball collects its sweets ; 
 
 Or trembling fescue : evTy favhdte herb 
 Shall court your taste, ye harmless epicures ! 
 Meanwhile permit that with unheeded step 
 I pass beside you, nor let idle fear 
 Spoil your repast, for know the lively scene. 
 That you still more enliven, to my soul 
 Darts inspiration, and impels the song 
 To roll in bolder descant ; while, within, 
 
 A gleam of happiness primaeval seems 
 To snatch me back to joys my nature claimM, 
 Ere vice defilM, ere slavery sunk the world. 
 And all was faith and freedom : then was man 
 Creation^s king, yet friend ; and all that browse 
 The plain, or skim the air, or dive the flood. 
 Paid him their liberal homage ; paid unaw’d 
 In love accepted, sympathetic love 
 That felt for all, and blest them with its smiles. 
 
40 
 
 Then, nor the curling horn had learn ’d to sound 
 The savage song of chase ; the barbed shaft 
 Had then no poisonM point ; nor thou, fell tube ! 
 Whose iron entrails hide the sulphurous blast, 
 Satanic engine, k newest the ruthless power 
 Of thundering death around thee. Then alike 
 Were ye innocuous thiV your ev^ry tribe. 
 
 Or brute, or reptile ; nor by rage or guile 
 Had giv^n to injurM man his only plea 
 (And that the tyrant’s plea *) to work your harm. 
 Instinct, alas ! like wayward Reason, now 
 Veers from its pole. There was a golden time 
 When each created being kept its sphere 
 Appointed, nor infring’d its neighbour’s right. 
 
 The flocks, to whom the grassy lawn was giv’n. 
 Fed on its blades contented ; now they crush 
 Each scion’s tender shoots, and, at its birth. 
 Destroy, what, sav’d from their remorseless tooth. 
 Had been the tree of Jove. Ev’n while I sing. 
 Yon wanton lamb has cropt the woodbine’s pride. 
 That bent beneath a full-blown load of sweets. 
 And fill’d the air with perfume ; see, it falls ; 
 
 The busy bees, with many a murmur sad, 
 
 ^ Alluding to Milton. 
 
 So spake the fiend, and with necessity ^ 
 
 The tyrant’s plea, excus’d his devilish deeds. 
 
 Paradise Lost, book iv. line 393 
 
41 
 
 Hang o’er their honied loss. Why is it thus ? 
 
 All, why must Art defend the friendly shades 
 She rear’d to shield you from the noontide beam ? 
 Traitors, forbear to wound them ! say, ye fools ! 
 Does your rich herbage fail ? do acrid leaves 
 Allbrd you daintier food ? I plead in vain ; 
 
 For now the father of the fleecy troop 
 Begins his devastation, and his ewes 
 Crowd to the spoil with imitative zeal. 
 
 Since then, constrain’d, we must expel the flock 
 From where our saplings rise, our flow’rets bloom. 
 The song shall teach, in clear perceptive notes. 
 How best to frame the fence, and best to hide 
 All its foreseen defects ; defective still, 
 
 Tho’ hid with happiest art. Ingrateful sure 
 When such the theme, beseems the Poet’s task : 
 Yet must he try, by modulation meet 
 Of varied cadence, and selected phrase. 
 
 Exact, yet free, without inflation bold. 
 
 To dignify the subject ; try to form 
 That magic sympathy of sense with sound 
 Which pictures all it sings ; while grace awakes 
 At each blest touch, and, on the lowliest things. 
 Scatters her rainbow hues. The first and best 
 Is that which, sinking from our eye, divides. 
 
 Yet seems not to divide the shaven lawn. 
 
42 
 
 And parts it from the pasture ; for if there 
 Sheep feed, or dappled deer, their wandering teeth 
 Will, smoothly as the scythe, the herbage shave,. 
 And leave a kindred verdure. This to keep. 
 Heed that thy labourer scoop the trench with care ; 
 For some there are who give their spade repose. 
 When broad enough the perpendicular sides 
 Divide, and deep descend : to form, perchance. 
 Some vulgar drain, such labour may suffice. 
 
 Yet not for beauty : here thy range of wall 
 Must lift its height erect, and, o^er its head 
 A verdant veil of swelling turf expand. 
 
 While smoothly from its base, with gradual ease. 
 The pasture meets its level, at that point 
 Which best deludes our eye, and best conceals 
 Thy lawn^s brief limit. Down so smooth a slope 
 The fleecy foragers will gladly browse ; 
 
 The velvet herbage, free from weeds obscene, 
 Shall spread its equal carpet, and the trench 
 Be pasture to its base. Thus form thy fence 
 Of stone, for stone alone, and pilM on high. 
 
 Best curbs the nimble deer, that love to range 
 Unlimited ; but where tame heifers feed. 
 
 Or innocent sheep, an humbler mound will serve, 
 UnlinM with stone, and but a greensward trench. 
 Here midway down, upon the hearer bank. 
 
 Plant th}^ thick row of thorns, and, to defend 
 
Their infant shoots beneath, on oaken stakes. 
 
 Extend a rail of elm, securely armM 
 
 With spiculated pailing, in such sort 
 
 As, round some citadel, the engineer 
 
 Directs his sharp stoccade. But when the shoots 
 
 Condense, and interweave their prickly boughs 
 
 Impenetrable, then withdraw their guard, 
 
 TheyVe done their office ; scorn thou to retain. 
 What frowns like military art in scenes. 
 
 Where Peace should smile perpetual. These de- 
 stroyM, 
 
 Make it thy vernal care, when April calls 
 New shoots to birth, to trim the hedge aslant. 
 
 And mould it to the roundiies^ of the mound. 
 Itself a shelving hill ; nor need we here 
 The rule or line precise, a casual glance 
 Suffices to direct the careless sheers. 
 
 Yet learn, that each variety of ground 
 Claims its peculiar barrier. When the foss 
 Can steal transverse before the central eye, 
 
 ^Tis duly drawn ; but, up yon neighb’ring hill. 
 That fronts the lawn direct, if labour delve 
 The yawning chasm, Twill meet, not cross our 
 view ; 
 
 No foliage can conceal, no curve correct 
 The deep deformity. And yet thou meanTt 
 
44 
 
 Up yonder hill to wind thy fragrant way. 
 
 And wisely dost thou mean ; for its broad eye 
 Catches the sudden charms of laughing vales. 
 
 Rude rocks, and headlong streams, and antique 
 oaks. 
 
 Lost in a wild horizon ; yet the path 
 That leads to all these charms expects defence : 
 Here then suspend the sportsman^s hempen toils. 
 And stretch their meshes on the light support 
 Of hazel plants, or draw thy lines of wire 
 In fivefold parallel ; no danger then 
 That sheep invade thy foliage. To thy herds. 
 And pasturM steeds an opener fence oppose, 
 FormM by a triple row of cordage strong. 
 
 Tight drawn the stakes between. The simple deer 
 Is curb’d by mimic snares ; the slenderest twine * 
 
 * Linnaeus makes this a characteristical property of the 
 fallow deer; his words are, arcetur fdo horizontally (See 
 Syst. Nat. art Dama.) I have sometimes seen feathers 
 tied to this line for greater security, though, perhaps, un- 
 necessarily. They seem, however, to have been in use in 
 VirgiPs time, from the following passage in the Georgies; 
 
 Stant circumfusa pruinis 
 
 Corpora magna bourn : confertoque agmine cervi 
 
 Torpent mole nova, et summis vix cornibus extant. 
 
 Hos non emissis canibus, non cassibus ullis, 
 
 Fiuiicca^ve agitant pavidosfonnidme penn'e : 
 
45 
 
 (If sages err not) that the beldame spins. 
 
 When by her wintry lamp she plies her wheel. 
 Arrests his courage ; his impetuous hoof. 
 
 Broad chest, and branching antlers, nought avail ; 
 In fearful gaze he stands ; the nerves that bore 
 His bounding pride o^er lofty mounds of stone, 
 
 A single thread defies. Such force has fear. 
 
 When visionary fancy wakes the fiend 
 
 In brute or man ; most powerful when most vain. 
 
 Still must the swain, who spreads these corded 
 guards. 
 
 Expect their swift decay. The noontide beams 
 Relax, the nightly dews contract the twist. 
 
 Oft too the coward hare, then only bold 
 When mischief prompts, or wintry famine pines. 
 Will quit her rush-grown form, and steal, with ear 
 Up-prickM, to gnaw the toils ; and oft the ram 
 
 Sed frustra oppositiun trudentes peotore montem 
 
 Cominus obtmncant ferro. 
 
 Georg, lib. iii. ver. 36S. 
 
 Ruaeus’s comment on the fifth line is as follows: Unea^ 
 Aut funiculus eratj cui plumcp implicabantur variis tinctce co^ 
 lorihusj ad feras terrendas, ut in retia agerentur. And a 
 simile, which Virgil uses in the twelfth book of the iEneid, 
 ver. 749, and another in Lucan, Phars. lib. iv. ver. 437, 
 clearly prove that the learned jeRiit has rightly explained 
 the passage. 
 
46 
 
 And jutting steer drive their entangling horns 
 Thro^ the frail meshes, and, by many a chasm. 
 Proclaim their hate of thraldom. Nothing brooks 
 Confinement, save. degenerate man alone. 
 
 Who deems a monarches smile can gild his chains. 
 Tir’d then, perchance, of nets that daily claim 
 Thy renovating labour, thou wilt forni. 
 
 With elm and oak, a rustic balustrade 
 Of firmest juncture ; happy could thy toil 
 Make it as fair as firm ; but vain the wish. 
 
 Aim not to grace, but hide its formal line. 
 
 Let those, who weekly, from the city’s smoke. 
 Crowd to each neighb’ring hamlet, there to hold 
 Their dusty sabbath, tip with gold and red 
 The milk-white palisades, that Gothic now. 
 
 And now Chinese, now neither, and yet both. 
 Chequer their trim domain. Thy sylvan scene 
 Would fade, indignant at the tawdry glare. 
 
 Come then, thou handmaid of that sister Muse ! 
 Who, when she calls to life and local form 
 Her mind’s creation, on thy aid depends 
 For half her mimic power ; sweet Colouring ! 
 come. 
 
 Lend thy delusive help, and pleas’d descend 
 Ev’n to thy meanest office ; grind, compound. 
 
47 
 
 Decide, what kindred hues may surest veil 
 The barrier rude, and lose it in the lawn. 
 
 She comes, and first, with snowy ceruse, joins 
 The ochhous atoms that chalybeate rills 
 Wash from their mineral channels, as they glide. 
 In flakes of earthly gold ; with these unites 
 A tinge of blue, or that deep azure grey, 
 
 FormM from the calcinM fibres of the vine ; 
 
 And, if she blends, with sparing hand she blends 
 That base metallic drug then only prizM, 
 
 When, aided by the humid touch of Time, 
 
 It gives a Nero’s or some tyrant’s cheek 
 Its precious canker. These with fluent oil 
 Attemper’d, on thy length’ning rail shall spread 
 That sober olive green which Nature wears 
 Ev’n on her vernal bosom ; nor misdeem. 
 
 For that, illumin’d with the noontide ray. 
 
 She boasts a brighter garment, therefore Art 
 A livelier verdure to thy aid should bring. 
 
 Know when that Art, with ev’ry varied hue. 
 
 Pour trays the living landscape ; when her hand 
 Commands the canvass plane to glide with streams. 
 To wave the foliage, or with flowers to breathe. 
 Cool olive tints, in soft gradation laid. 
 
 Create the general herbage : there alone. 
 
 Where darts with vivid force the ray supreme. 
 
48 
 
 Unsullied verdure reigns ; and tells our eye 
 It stole its bright reflection from the sun. 
 
 The paint is spread ; the barrier pales retire^ 
 SnatchM, as by magic, from the gazer^s view. 
 
 So, when the sable ensign of the night, 
 
 Unfurfd by mist-impelling Eurus, veils 
 The last red radiance of declining day. 
 
 Each scatterM village, and each holy spire 
 That deckM the distance of the sylvan scene. 
 
 Are sunk in sudden gloom : the plodding hind. 
 That homeward hies, kens not the cheering site 
 Of his calm cabin, which, a moment past, 
 StreamM from its roof an azure curl of smoke. 
 Beneath the sheltering coppice, and gave sign 
 Of warm domestic welcome from his toil. 
 
 Nor is that cot, of which fond Fancy draws 
 This casual picture, alien from our theme. 
 
 Revisit it at morn ; its opening latch, 
 
 Tho^ Penury and Toil within reside. 
 
 Shall pour thee forth a youthful progeny. 
 
 Glowing with health and beauty : (such the dower 
 Of equal heaven) see, how the ruddy tribe 
 Throng round the threshold, and, with vacant gaze. 
 Salute thee ; call the loiterers into use. 
 
 And form of these thy fence, the living fence 
 
4D 
 
 That graces what it guards. Thou think^st, per- 
 chance. 
 
 That, skilled in Nature^s heraldry, thy art 
 Has, in the limits of yon fragrant tuft, 
 
 Marshalfd each rose, that to the eye of June 
 Spreads its peculiar crimson ; do not err. 
 
 The loveliest still is wanting ; the fresh rose 
 Of Innocence, it blossoms on their cheek. 
 
 And, lo, to thee they bear it ! striving each, 
 
 In panting race, who first shall reach the lawn. 
 Proud to he calfd thy shepherds. Want, alas ! 
 Has o^er their little limbs her livery hung. 
 
 In many a tatterM fold, yet still those limbs 
 Are shapely ; their rude locks start from their brow, 
 Yet, on that open brow, its dearest throne. 
 
 Sits sweet Simplicity. Ah, clothe the troop 
 In such a russet garb as best befits 
 Their pastoral office ; let the leathern scrip 
 Swing at their side, tip thou their crook with steel. 
 And braid their hat with rushes, then to each 
 Assign his station ; at the close of eve. 
 
 Be it their care to pen in hurdled cote 
 The flock, and when the matin prime returns. 
 Their care to set them free ; yet watching still 
 The liberty they lend, oft shaft thou hear 
 Their whistle shrill, and oft their faithful dog 
 Sliall with obedient barkings fright the flock 
 
50 
 
 From wrong or robbery. The livelong day. 
 Meanwhile, rolls lightly o^er their happy heads f 
 They bask on sunny hillocks, or desport 
 In rustic pastime, while that loveliest grace. 
 
 Which only lives in action unrestraint. 
 
 To ev^ry simple gesture lends a charm. 
 
 Pride of the year, purpureal Spring ! attend. 
 And, in the cheeks of these sweet innocents 
 Behold your beauties pictur’d. As the cloud 
 That weeps its moment from thy sapphire heav’n. 
 They frown with causeless sorrow ; as the beam. 
 Gilding that cloud, with causeless mirth they smile. 
 Stay, pitying Time ! prolong their vernal bliss. 
 Alas ! ere we can note it in our song. 
 
 Comes manhood’s feverish summer, chill’d full soon 
 By cold autumnal care, till wintry age 
 Sinks in the frore severity of death. 
 
 Ah ! who, when such life’s momentary dream,. 
 Would mix in hireling senates, strenuous there 
 To crush the venal hydra, whose fell crests 
 Rise with recruited venom from the wound ! 
 Who, for so vain a conflict, would forego 
 Thy sylvan haunts, celestial Solitude ! 
 
 Where self-improvement, crown’d with self-con- 
 tent. 
 
51 
 
 Await to bless thy votary. NurturM thus 
 In tranquil groves, listening to Nature’s voice. 
 
 That preach’d from whispering trees, and babbling 
 brooks, 
 
 A lesson seldom learnt in Reason’s school. 
 
 The wise Sidonian liv’d * : and, tho’ the pest 
 Of lawless tyranny around him rag’d ; 
 
 Tho’ Strato, great alone in Persia’s gold, 
 
 Uncall’d, unhallow’d by the people’s choice. 
 Usurp’d the throne of his brave ancestors ; 
 
 Yet was his soul all peace ; a garden’s care 
 His only thought, its charms his only pride. 
 
 But now the conquering arms of Macedon 
 Had humbl’d Persia. Now Phaenicia’s realm 
 Receives the son of Ammon ; at whose frown 
 Her tributary kings or quit their thrones. 
 
 Or at his smile retain ; and Sidon, now 
 Freed from her tyrant, points the victor’s step 
 To where her rightful sov’reign, doubly dear 
 By birth and virtue, prun’d his garden grove. 
 
 * Abdalominus. The fact on which this episode is 
 founded, is recorded by Diodorus Siculus, Plutarch, Justin, 
 and Q. Curtius ; the last is here chiefly followed. M. de 
 Fontenelle and the Abbe Metastasio have both of them 
 treated the subject dramatically. 
 
^Twas at that early hour, when now the sun 
 Behind majestic Lebanon's dark veil 
 Hid his ascending splendour ; yet thro' each 
 Her cedar-vested sides, his slaunting beams 
 Shot to the strand, and purpled all the main ; 
 Where Commerce saw her Sidon's freighted wealth. 
 With languid streamers, and with folded sails. 
 Float in a lake of gold. The wind was hush'd ; 
 And, to the beech, each slowly-lifted vsrave. 
 Creeping with silver curl, just kiss'd the shore. 
 And slept in silence. At this tranquil hour 
 Did Sidon's senate, and the Grecian host. 
 
 Led by the conqueror of the world, approach 
 The secret glade that veil'd the man of toil. 
 
 Now near the mountain's foot the chief arriv'd. 
 Where, round that glade, a pointed aloe screen. 
 Entwin'd with myrtle, met in tangled brakes. 
 
 That barr'd all entrance, save at one low gate. 
 Whose time-disjointed arch with ivy chain'd. 
 
 Bade stoop the warrior train. A path-way brown 
 Led thro' the pass, meeting a fretful brook. 
 
 And wandering near its channel, while it leap'd 
 O'er many a rocky fragment, where rude art. 
 Perchance, had help'd, but not prescrib'd its way. 
 
 Close was the vale and shady ; yet, erelong. 
 
Its forest sides retiring, left a lawn 
 Of ample circuit, where the widening stream 
 Now, o’er its pebbled channel, nimbly tript 
 In many a lucid maze. From the flower’d verge 
 Of this clear rill now stray’d the devious path. 
 Amid ambrosial tufts, where spicy plants. 
 Weeping their perfum’d tears of myrrh, and nard. 
 Stood crown’d with Sharon’s rose ; or where, apart. 
 The patriarch palm his load of sugar’d dates 
 Shower’d plenteous ; where the fig, of standard 
 •strength. 
 
 And rich pomegranate wrapt, in dulcet pulp. 
 Their racy seeds ; or where, with golden fruit 
 Mature, the citron wav’d its splendid bough. 
 Meanwhile, the lawn beneath the scatter’d shade 
 Spread its serene extent ; a stately file 
 Of circling cypress mark’d the distant bound. 
 
 Now, to the left, the path ascending pierc’d 
 A smaller sylvan theatre, yet deck’d 
 With more majestic foliage. Cedars here. 
 
 Coeval with the sky-crown’d mountain’s self. 
 Spread wide their giant arms; whence, from a rock 
 Craggy and black, that seem’d its fountain head,. 
 The stream fell headlong ; yet still higher rose, 
 Ev’n in th’ eternal snow of Lebanon, 
 
 That hallow’d spring ; thence, in the porous earth 
 
54 
 
 Long while ingulphM, its crystal weight here forcM 
 Its way to light and freedom. Down it dashM ; 
 
 A bed of native marble pure^ receivM 
 The new-born Naiad_, and reposM her wave. 
 
 Till with overflowing pride it skimmM the lawn. 
 
 Fronting this lake there rose a solemn grot, 
 
 O^er which an ancient vine luxuriant flung 
 Its purple clusters, and beneath its roof 
 An unhewn altar. Rich Sabaean gums 
 That altar pil’d, and there with torch of pine 
 The venerable sage, now first descry’d. 
 
 The fragrant incense kindled. Age had shed 
 That dust of silver o’er his sable locks. 
 
 Which spoke his strength mature beyond its prime. 
 Yet vigorous still, for from his healthy cheek 
 Time had not cropt a rose, or on his brow 
 One wrinkling furrow plow’d ; his eagle eye 
 Had all its youthful lightning, and each limb 
 The sinewy strength that toil demands and gives. 
 
 The warrior saw and paus’d : his nod withheld 
 The crowd at awful distance, where their ears. 
 
 In mute attention, drank the sage’s prayer. 
 
 Parent of Good (he cried) behold the gifts 
 
 Thy humble votary brings, and may thy smile 
 Hallow his customM offering. Let the hand 
 
55 
 
 That deals, in blood, with blood thy shrines 
 distain. 
 
 Be mine this harmless tribute. If it speaks 
 ** A grateful heart, can hecatombs do more ? 
 Parent of Good ! they cannot. Purple pomp 
 May call thy presence to a prouder fane 
 ** Than this poor cave ; but will thy presence 
 there 
 
 Be more devoutly felt ? Parent of Good ! 
 
 It will not. Here, then, shall the prostrate heart. 
 That deeply feels thy presence, lift its prayer. — 
 But what has he to ask who nothing needs. 
 
 Save, what unasked, is, from thy heaven of 
 heavens 
 
 Giv^n in diurnal good ? Yet, holy Power ! 
 
 Do all that call thee Father thus exult 
 In thy propitious presence ? Sidon sinks 
 Beneath a tyrant’s scourge. Parent of Good ! 
 Oh free my captive country !” — Sudden here 
 He paus’d and sigh’d. And now, the raptur’d 
 crowd 
 
 Murmur’d applause : he heard, he turn’d, and saw 
 The king of Macedon with eager step 
 Burst from his warrior phalanx. From the youth. 
 Who bore its state, the conqueror’s own right hand 
 Snatch’d the rich wreath, and bound it on his brow. 
 Flis swift attendants o’er his shoulders cast 
 
56 
 
 The robe of empire, while the trumpet’s voice 
 Proclaim’d him king of Sidon. Stern he stood. 
 
 Or, if he smil’d, ’twas a contemptuous smile. 
 
 That held the pageant honours in disdain. 
 
 Then burst the people’s voice, in loud acclaim. 
 
 And bade him be their father. At the word. 
 
 The honour’d blood that warm’d him flush’d his 
 cheek ; 
 
 His brow expanded ; his exalted step 
 March’d firmer ; graciously he bow’d the head. 
 And was the sire they call’d him. Tell me, 
 king,” 
 
 Young Ammon cried, while o’er his bright’ning 
 form 
 
 He cast the gaze of wonder, how a soul 
 Like thine could bear the toils of penury ?” 
 
 Oh grant me, gods !” he answer’d, so to bear. 
 This load of royalty. My toil was crown’d 
 With blessings lost to kings ; yet, righteous 
 powers ! 
 
 If to my country ye transfer the boon, 
 
 I triumph in the loss. Be mine the chains 
 That fetter sov’reignty ; let Sidon smile 
 With your best blessings, liberty and peace,” 
 
 END OF THE SECOND BOOK. 
 
TUE 
 
 ENGLISH GARDEN. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 Clos’d is that curious ear, by Death’s cold hand. 
 That mark’d each error of my careless strain 
 With kind severity ; to vrhom my Muse 
 Still lov’d to whisper, what she meant to sing 
 In louder accent ; to whose taste supreme 
 She first and last appeal’d, nor wish’d for praise. 
 Save when his smile was herald to her fame. 
 
 Yes, thou art gone ; yet Friendship’s fault’ring 
 tongue 
 
 Invokes thee still ; and still, by Fancy sooth’d. 
 Fain would she hope her Gray attends the call. 
 Why then, alas ! place I the funeral urn. 
 
 The sculptur’d lyre, within this sylvan dome *, 
 
 * Mr. Gray died July 31, 1771. This book was begun 
 a few months after. The three following lines allude to a 
 rustic alcove the author was then building in his garden, in 
 which he placed a medallion of his friend, and an urn. A 
 
58 
 
 And fix this votive tablet, fair inscribe 
 With numbers worthy thee, for they are thine ? 
 Why, if thou liear^st me still, these symbols sad 
 Of fond memorial ? Ah ! my pensive soul ! 
 
 He hears not now, nor ever more shall hear 
 The theme his candour, not his taste, appro vM. 
 
 Oft, smiling as in scorn, oft would he cry. 
 
 Why waste thy numbers on a trivial art. 
 
 That ill can mimic even the humblest charms 
 Of all majestic Nature At the word 
 His eye would glisten, and his accents glow 
 With all the poet^s frenzy, Sovereign queen ! 
 Behold, and tremble ! while thou view^st her 
 state 
 
 ThronM on the heights of Skiddaw ; call thy art 
 To build her such a throne ; that art will sink 
 To its primaeval nothing. Trace her march 
 Amid the purple craggs of Borrowdale ; 
 
 lyre over the entrance, with the motto from Pindar, which 
 Mr. Gray had prefixed to his Odes, OilNANTA 2TNETOI2I, 
 and under it, on a tablet, this stanza, taken from the first 
 «dition of his elegy written in a Country Church-yard : 
 
 Here scatter’d oft, the loveliest of the year. 
 
 By hands unseen, are showers of vi’lets found j 
 The red-breast loves to build and warble here^ 
 
 And little footsteps lightly print the ground. 
 
59 
 
 And try like those to pile thy range ot' rock 
 In rude tumultuous chaos. See ! she mounts 
 Her NaVad car, and, down Lodore^s dread cliff. 
 Falls many a fathom with the headlong stream ; 
 Falls, like the bard my fabling fancy hurl'd 
 From the rough brow that frown'd o'er Conway's 
 flood ; 
 
 Yet not like him, to plunge in endless night ; 
 For, on its boiling bosom, still she guides 
 Her buoyant shell, and leads the wave along. 
 
 Or spreads it broad, a river, or a lake. 
 
 As suits her sov'reign pleasure ; will thy song 
 E'er brace the sinews of enervate art 
 To such dread daring ? will it ev'n direct 
 Her hand to emulate those softer charms 
 That deck the banks of Dove, or call to birth 
 The bare romantic craggs, and copses green. 
 That sidelong grace her circuit ? whence the 
 rills. 
 
 Bright in their crystal purity, descend 
 To meet their sparkling queen, around each 
 fount 
 
 The hawthorns crowd, and knit their blossom'd 
 sprays 
 
 To keep their sources sacred. Here, even here. 
 Thy art, each active sinew strain'd in vain. 
 Would perish in its pride. Far rather thou 
 
60 
 
 Confess her scanty power, connect, controni. 
 Tell her how far, nor farther, she may go. 
 
 And rein with Reason’s curb fantastic Taste.” 
 
 Yes, I will hear thee, dear lamented shade. 
 Each accent shall retentive Memory stamp 
 On her true tablet ; what remains unsung. 
 
 As if still guided by thy judgment sage. 
 
 As if still modeird to thy curious ear. 
 
 Shall flow with varied cadence : so shall praise. 
 If ought of praise the verse I weave may claim. 
 From just Posterity reward my song. 
 
 Erewhile, to trace the path, to form the fence. 
 To mark the destin’d limits of the lawn. 
 
 The Muse, with measur’d step preceptive, pac’d. 
 Now from the surface with impatient flight 
 She mounts, Sylvanus ! o’er thy world of shade. 
 To spread her pinions. Open all thy glades. 
 Greet her from all thy echoes. Orpheus like. 
 Arm’d with the spell of harmony, she comes. 
 
 To lead thy forests forth to lovelier scenes. 
 Where Fancy waits to fix them ; from the dells 
 Where now they lurk she calls them to possess 
 Conspicuous stations ; to their varied forms 
 Allots congenial place ; selects, divides. 
 
 And blends anew in one Elysian whole. 
 
61 
 
 Yet, while I thus exult, my weak tongue feels 
 The lack of antient phrase which, speaking, paints. 
 And IS the thing it sings. Ah, Virgil ! why 
 Leftist thou this theme to grate on modern reed ? 
 Why not array it in the radiant robe 
 Of thy rich diction, give it to the guard 
 Of Fame thy handmaid, whose immortal plume 
 Had borne its praise beyond the bounds of Time ? 
 
 Countless is Vegetation^s verdant brood 
 As are the stars that stud yon cope of heaven ; 
 
 To marshal all her tribes, in orderM file 
 Generic, or specific, might demand 
 His science, wondYous Swede, whose ample mind. 
 Like antient Tadmor^s philosophic king, 
 
 StretchM from the hyssop creeping on the wall 
 To Lebanon's proudest cedars. Skill like this. 
 Which spans a copious third of Nature^s realm. 
 Our art requires not, sedulous alone 
 To note those general properties of shape. 
 Dimension, growth, duration, strength, and hue. 
 Then first impressed, when, at the dawn of time. 
 The form-deciding life-inspiring word 
 PronouncM them into being. These prime marks. 
 Distinctive, docile Memory, makes her own. 
 
 That each their shadowy succour may supply 
 To her wish'd purpose ; first, as first beseems. 
 
62 
 
 To veil whatever of wall, or fence uncouth 
 Offends the eye, which tyrant Use has rear'd. 
 
 And stern Necessity forbids to change. 
 
 Lur'd with their hasty sprouts and branching 
 stems. 
 
 Planters there are who chuse the race of pine 
 For this great end, erroneous ; witness they 
 That, as their arrowy heads assault the sky. 
 
 They leave their shafts unfeather'd ; rather thou 
 Select the shrubs that, patient of the knife. 
 
 Will thank thee for the wound : the hardy thorn. 
 Holly, or box, privet, or pyracanth. 
 
 They, thickening from their base, with tenfold shade 
 Will soon replenish all thy judgment prun'd. 
 
 But chief, with willing aid, her glittering green 
 Shall England's laurel bring ; swift shall she spread 
 Her broad-leav'd shade, and float it fair and wide. 
 Proud to be call'd an inmate of the soil. 
 
 Let England prize this daughter of the east * 
 
 * Our common laurel was first brought into the Low 
 Countries, A. D. 1576, (together with the horse chesnut) 
 from Constantinople, as a present from David Ungnad, the 
 Imperial Ambassador in Turkey, to Clusius, the famous 
 botanist. It was sent him by the name of Trabison-Cur- 
 masi, or the Date of Trebisond, but he named it Lauro- 
 Cerasus. 
 
63 
 
 Beyond that Latian plant, of kindred name. 
 
 That wreathM the head of Julius ; basely twinM 
 Its flattering foliage on the traitor^s brow 
 Who crushM his country's freedom. Sacred tree 
 Ne^er be your brighter verdure thus debasM ! 
 
 Far happier thou, in this sequesterM bower. 
 
 To shroud thy poet, who, with fostering hand. 
 Here bade thee flourish, and with grateful strain 
 Now chaunts the praise of thy maturer bloom. 
 
 And happier far that poet, if, secure 
 
 His hearth and altars from the pilfering slaves 
 
 Of power, his little eve of lonely life 
 
 May here steal on, blest with the heartfelt calm 
 
 That competence and liberty inspire. 
 
 Nor are the plants which England calls her 
 own 
 
 Few, or unlovely, that, with laurel joined 
 And kindred foliage of perennial green. 
 
 Will form a close-knit curtain. Shrubs there arc 
 Of bolder growth, that, at the Springes first call. 
 Burst forth in blossomM fragrance. Lilacs rob\l 
 In snow-white innocence, or purple pride^ 
 
 The sweet syringa, yielding but in scent 
 To the rich orange, or the woodbine wild. 
 
 That loves to hang on barren boughs remote 
 Her wreaths of flowery perfume. These, beside 
 
64 
 
 Myriads, that here the Muse neglects to riarney 
 Will add a vernal lustre to thy veil. 
 
 And what if chance collects the varied tribes. 
 Yet fear not thou but unexpected charms 
 Will from their union start. But if our song 
 Supply one precept here, it bids retire 
 Each leaf of deeper dye, and lift in front 
 Foliage of paler verdure, so to spread 
 A canvass, which, when touched by AutumnV 
 hand. 
 
 Shall gleam with dusky gold, or russet rays. 
 
 But why prepare for her funereal hand 
 
 That canvass ? she but comes to dress thy shades> 
 
 As lovelier victims for their wintry tomb ; 
 
 Rather to flowery Spring, to Summer bright. 
 
 Thy labours consecrate ; their laughing reign. 
 
 The youth, the manhood of the growing year. 
 Deserves thy labour, and rewards its pain. 
 
 Yet, heedful ever of that ruthless time 
 When Winter shakes their stems, preserve a file 
 With ever-during leaf to brave his arm. 
 
 And deepening spread their undiminishM gloom. 
 
 But, if the tall defect demands a screen 
 Of forest shade high-tow"ring, some broad roof. 
 Perchance, of glaring tile that guards the stores 
 
65 
 
 Of Ceres, or the patchM disjointed choir 
 Of some old fane, whose Steeplers Gothic pride 
 Or pinnacled, or spir’d, would bolder rise 
 
 In tufted trees high bosom’d.” Here allot 
 Convenient space to plant that lofty tribe 
 Behind thy underwood, lest, o’er its head 
 The forest tyrants shake their lordly arms. 
 
 And shed their baleful dew. Each plant that springs 
 Holds, like the people of some freeborn state. 
 
 Its rights fair franchis’d ; rooted to a spot 
 It yet has claim to air ; from liberal heav’n 
 It yet has claim to sunshine, and to showers : 
 
 Air, shoAvers, and sunshine are its liberty. 
 
 That liberty secur’d, a general shade 
 Dense, and impervious to thy wish shall rise 
 To hide each form uncouth ; and, this obtain’d. 
 
 All else we from the dryad race implore 
 Is grace, is ornament. For see our lawn, 
 
 Tho’ cloth’d with softest verdure, tho’ reliev’d 
 By many a gentle fall and easy swell. 
 
 Expects that harmony of light, and shade. 
 
 Which foliage only gives. Come, then, ye plants ! 
 That, like the village troop Avhen Maia dawns. 
 Delight to mingle social ; to the crest 
 Of yonder brow we safely may conduct 
 Your numerous train, no eye obstructed there 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 Will blame your interposM society ; 
 
 But, on the plain below, in single stems 
 Disparted, or in sparing groups distinct. 
 
 Wide must ye stand, in wild, disorder^ mood. 
 
 As if the seeds from which your scions sprang 
 Had there been scatterM from the affrighted beak 
 Of some maternal bird, whom the fierce hawk 
 Pursued with felon claw. Her young, meanwhile. 
 Callow, and cold, from their moss- woven nest 
 Peep forth ; they stretch their little eager throats 
 Broad to the wind, and plead to the lone spray 
 Their famishM plaint importunately shrill. 
 
 Yet in this wild disorder Art presides. 
 
 Designs, corrects, and regulates the whole. 
 
 Herself the while unseen. No cedar broad 
 Drops his dark curtain where a distant scene 
 Demands distinction. Here the thin abele 
 Of lofty bole, and bare ; the smooth-stemmed beech^ 
 Or slender alder give our eye free space 
 Beneath their boughs, to catch each lessening charm^ 
 Ev^n to the far horizon^s azure bound. 
 
 Nor will that sovereign arbitress admit, 
 Whereeer her nod decrees a mass of shade. 
 
 Plants of discordant sort, unequal size. 
 
 Or rufd by Foliationes different law 5 
 
67 
 
 Studious, with just selection, those to join 
 That earliest flourish, and that latest fade. 
 
 Nor will that sovereign arbitress devote 
 To strange and alien soils her seedling stems ; 
 
 Fix the dank sallow on the mountain's brow. 
 
 Or to the moss-grown margin of the lake. 
 
 Bid the dry pine ascend. From Nature’s laws 
 She draws her own : Nature and she are one. 
 
 Nor will that sovereign arbitress select. 
 
 For objects interpos’d, the pigmy race 
 
 Of shrubs, or scatter with unmeaning hand 
 
 Their offspring o’er the lawn, scorning to patch 
 
 With many a meagre and disjointed tuft 
 
 Its sober surface : sidelong to her path 
 
 And polish’d foreground she confines their growth. 
 
 Where o’er their heads the liberal eye may range. 
 
 Nor will that sov’reign arbitress, intent 
 To form one perfect whole, forego that aim 
 To give exotic wonders to our gaze. 
 
 She knows and trusts not in the faithless train : 
 Sagely she calls on those of hardy class 
 Indigenous, who, patient of the change 
 From heat to cold, which Albion hourly feels. 
 
 Are brac’d with strength to brave it. These alone 
 
68 
 
 She plants, and prunes, nor grieves if nicer eyes 
 Pronounce them vulgar. These she calls her friends. 
 That veteran troop who will not for a blast 
 Of nipping air like cowards quit the field. 
 
 Far to the north of thy imperial towers, 
 Augusta ; in that wild and Alpine vale 
 Thro^ which the Swale, by mountain torrents swelPd, 
 Flings his redundant stream, there liv^d a youth 
 Of polishM manners ; ample his domain. 
 
 And fair the site of his paternal dome. 
 
 He lovM the art I sing, a deep adept 
 In Nature^s story ; well he knew the names 
 Of all her verdant lineage, yet that skill 
 Misled his taste ; scornful of every bloom 
 That spread spontaneous, from remotest Ind 
 He brought his foliage ; careless of its cost, 
 
 Ev^n of its beauty careless ; it was rare. 
 
 And therefore beauteous. Now his laurel screen. 
 With rose and woodbine negligently wove. 
 
 Bows to the axe ; the rich magnolias claim 
 The station ; now Herculean beeches fellM, 
 
 Resign their rights, and warm Virginia sends 
 Her cedars to usurp them ; the proud oak 
 Himself, ev^n he, the sovereign of the shade. 
 Yields to the fir that drips with Gilead^s balm. 
 Now, Albion, gaze at glories not thy own ! 
 
69 
 
 Pause^ rapid Swale ! and see thy margin crowned 
 With all the pride of Ganges : vernal showers 
 Have fix’d their roots^ nutritious Summer suns 
 Favour’d their growth, and mildest Autumn smil’d 
 Benignant o’er them ; vigorous, fair, and tall. 
 They waft a gale of spices o’er the plain. 
 
 But Winter comes, and with him watry Jove, 
 
 And with him Boreas in his frozen shroud : 
 
 The savage spirit of old Swale is rous’d ; 
 
 He howls amid his foam. At the dread sight 
 The aliens stand aghast ; they bow their heads ; 
 
 In vain the glassy penthouse is supply’d. 
 
 The pelting storm with icy bullets breaks 
 Its fragile barrier ; see, they fade, they die. 
 
 Warn’d by his error, let the planter slight 
 These shiv’ring rarities ; or if, to please 
 Fastidious Fashion, he must needs allot 
 Some space for foreign foliage, let him chuse 
 A sidelong glade, shelter’d from east and north. 
 And free to southern and to western gales ; 
 
 There let him fix their station, thither wind 
 Some devious path, that, from the general whole 
 Detach’d, may lead to where they safely bloom. 
 So in the web of epic song sublime 
 The bard Maeonian interweaves the charm 
 
70 
 
 Of gentle episode, yet leaves unbroke 
 The golden thread of his majestic theme. 
 
 What else to shun of formal, false, or vain. 
 
 Of long-linM vistas, or plantations quaint. 
 
 Our former strains have taught : Instruction now 
 Withdraws ; she knows her limits ; knows that grace 
 Is caught by strong perception, not from rules ; 
 That undrest Nature claims for all her limbs 
 Some simple garb peculiar, which, however 
 Distant their size and shape, is simple still : 
 
 This garb to chuse, with clothing dense, or thin, 
 
 A part to hide, another to adorn. 
 
 Is Tasters important task ; preceptive song 
 From error in the choice can only warn. 
 
 But vain that warning voice ; vain ev^ry aid 
 Of genius, judgment, fancy, to secure 
 The planter's lasting fame. There is a power, 
 
 A hidden power, at once his friend and foe ; 
 
 ^Tis Vegetation. Gradual to his groves 
 She gives their wishM effect. O ! for an arm 
 Supernal there to check her — impious wish ! 
 
 She is high Heaven^s vicegerent ; she must shape. 
 Must shoot, must swell each fibre as she lists. 
 
 Must reign in wild luxuriance. Happier far 
 
 I 
 
r 
 
 71 
 
 Are you, ye sons of Claude ! who from the mine. 
 The earth, or juice of herb or flower concrete. 
 Mingle the mass whence your Arcadias spring ; 
 The graceful outline of your pictured trees 
 Still keeps the bound you gave it; Time, that pales 
 Your vivid hues, respects your pleasing forms. 
 
 Not so our landscapes ; tho^ we paint like you. 
 
 We paint with glowing colours ; evTy year. 
 Overpassing that which gives the breadth of shade 
 We sought, by rude addition, mars our scene. 
 
 Rouse then, ye hinds ! e’er yet yon closing boughs 
 Blot out the purple distance, rouse ye soon. 
 Prevent the spreading evil. Thin the glades. 
 While yet of slender size each stem will thrive 
 Transplanted. Twice repeat the annual toil ; 
 
 Nor let the axe its beak, the. saw its tooth 
 Refrain, whene’er some random branch has stray’d 
 Beyond the bounds of beauty ; else full soon, 
 
 Ev’n ere the planter’s life has past its prime. 
 
 Will Albion’s garden frown an Indian wild. 
 
 Foreboding fears avaunt ! be our’s to urge 
 Each present purpose by what favouring means 
 May work its end design’d. Why deprecate 
 The change that waits on sublunary things. 
 
 Sad lot of their existence ? Shall we pause 
 
72 
 
 To give the charm of Water to our scene. 
 
 Because the congregated rains may swell 
 Its tide into a flood ? because yon Sun 
 Now mounts the Lion ; to his burning noon 
 Impels him ; shaking from his fiery mane 
 A heat may parch its channel ? O, ye caves. 
 Deepen your dripping roofs ! this feverish hour * 
 Claims all your coolness. In your humid cells 
 Permit me to forget the planter’s toil ; 
 
 And, while I woo your Naiads to my aid. 
 
 Involve me in impenetrable gloom. 
 
 Blest be the man (if bliss be human boast) 
 Whose fertile soil is wash’d with frequent streams. 
 And springs salubrious. He disdains to toss 
 In rainbow dews their crystal to the sun : 
 
 Or sink, in subterranean cisterns deep ; 
 
 That so, thro’ leaden syphons upward drawn. 
 Those streams may leap fantastic. He his ear 
 Shuts to the tuneful trifling of the bard f , 
 
 * These lines were written in June 1778, when it was re- 
 markably hot weather. 
 
 f Rene Rapin, a learned Jesuit of the last century, who 
 writ a didactic Latin poem on Gardens, in four books, by 
 way of supplement to VirgiPs Georgies. The third book 
 treats the subject of water, or, more properly, of water- 
 works, for it is entirely made up of descriptions of jet 
 d’eaux, and such sort of artificial baubles. 
 
Who trickM a gothic theme with classic flowers. 
 And sung of fountains bursting from the shells 
 Of brazen tritons, spouting through the jaws 
 
 Of gorgons, hydras, and chimaeras dire/^ 
 
 Peace to his manes ! let the nymphs of Seine 
 Cherish his fame. Thy Poet, Albion, scorns, 
 
 Ev^n for a cold unconscious element. 
 
 To forge the fetters he would scorn to wear. 
 
 His song shall reprobate each effort vile. 
 
 That aims to force the Genius of the stream 
 Beyond his native level ; this first law. 
 
 That Nature to her world of waters gave. 
 
 Let Art revere, as does impartial Heaven ; 
 
 The poise of Justice ; let her scorn to press. 
 Above that destiiTd line, the balancM wave. 
 
 Is there within the circle of thy view 
 Some sedgy flat, where the late-ripenM sheaves 
 Stand brown with unblest mildew ? ^tis the bed 
 On which an ample lake in crystal peace 
 Might sleep majestic. Pause we yet ; perchance. 
 Some midway channel, where the soil declines. 
 Might there be delvM, by levels duly led 
 In bold and broken curves : (for water love^ 
 
 A wilder outline than the woodland path. 
 
74 
 
 Ev’n to acute extremes. * To drain the rest 
 The shelving spade may toil, till wintry showers 
 Find their free course down each declining bank. 
 Quit then the thought ; a river^s winding form. 
 With many a sinuous bay, and island green. 
 
 At less expence of labour and of land. 
 
 Will give thee equal beauty ; seldom art 
 Can emulate that magnitude sublime 
 Which spreads the native lake, and, failing there. 
 Her works betray their character and name. 
 
 And dwindle into pools. Not that our strain 
 Fastidious, shall disdain a small expanse 
 Of stagnant fluid, in some scene confinM, 
 
 Circled with varied shade, where, through the leaves. 
 The half-admitted sunbeam trembling plays 
 On its clear bosom ; where aquatic fowl 
 Of varied tribe and varied feather sail ; 
 
 And where the finny race their glittering scales 
 Unwillingly reveal. There, there alone. 
 
 Where bursts the general prospect on our eye, 
 
 * See book ii. ver. 50 to ver. 78, where the curve of 
 beauty, or a line waving very gently, is said not only to 
 prevail in natural pathways, but in the course of rivulets 
 and the outlines of lakes. It generally does so j yet in the 
 latter it is sometimes found more abmpt. In artificial 
 pieces of water, therefore, bolder curves maybe employed, 
 than in the formation of the sand or gravel walk. 
 
75 
 
 We scorn these watVy patches ; Thames himself. 
 Seen in disjointed spots, where sallows hide 
 His first bold presence, seems a string of pools, 
 
 A chart and compass must explain his course. 
 
 He who would seize the river^s sovVeign charm 
 Must wind the moving mirror through his lawn 
 Ev^n to remotest distance ; deep must delve 
 The gravelly channel that prescribes its course ; 
 Closely conceal each terminating bound 
 By hill or shade oppos’d ; and to its bank 
 Lift the true level of the equal stream. 
 
 In sparkling plenitude. But, if thy springs 
 Refuse this large supply, steel thy firm soul 
 With stoic pride, imperfect charms despise ; 
 Beauty, like Virtue, knows no groveling mean. 
 
 Who but must pity that penurious taste. 
 
 Which down the quick-descending vale prolongs. 
 Slope below slope, a stiff and unlink’d chain 
 Of flat canals ; then leads the stranger’s eye 
 To some predestin’d station, there to catch 
 Their seeming union, and the fraud approve r 
 Who but must change that pity into scorn. 
 
 If down each verdant slope a narrow flight 
 Of central steps decline, where the spare stream 
 Steal trickling ; or, withheld by cunning skill. 
 
76 
 
 Hoards its scant treasures,, till the master’s nod 
 Decree its fall. Then down the formal stairs 
 It leaps with short-liv’d fury ; wasting there. 
 
 Poor prodigal ! what many a Summer’s rain. 
 
 And many a Winter’s snow shall late restore. 
 
 Learn, that whene’er in some sublimer scene 
 Imperial Nature of her headlong floods 
 Permits our imitation, she herself 
 Prepares their reservoir ; conceal’d, perchance. 
 
 In neighb’ring hills, where first it well behoves 
 Our toil to search, and studiously augment 
 With sidelong springs and sluices frequent drawn 
 From pools, that on the heath drink up the rain. 
 Be these collected, like the miser’s gold. 
 
 In one increasing fund, nor dare to pour 
 Down thy impending mound the bright cascade. 
 Till richly sure of its redundant fall. 
 
 That mound to raise alike demands thy toil. 
 
 Ere Art adorn its surface. Here adopt 
 
 That facile mode which his inventive powers * 
 
 First plann’d, who led to rich Mancunium’s mart 
 
 * Mr. Brindley, who executed the Duke of Bridge- 
 water’s canal, and invented a method of making dams to 
 hold water, without clay, using for this purpose any sort of 
 earth duly tempered with water. 
 
77 
 
 His long-drawn line of navigated stream. 
 Stupendous task ! in vain stood towering hills 
 OpposM, in vain did ample Irwell pour 
 Her tide transverse ; he piercM the towering hill, 
 He bridgM the ample tide, and high in air. 
 
 And deep through earth, his freighted barge he bore. 
 This mode shall temper ev^n the lightest soil 
 To thy firm purpose ; then let taste select 
 The unhewn fragments, that may give its front 
 A rocky rudeness ; pointed some, that there 
 The frothy spouts may break ; some slaunting smooth. 
 That there in silver sheet the wave may slide. 
 Here too infi^^ some moss-grown trunks of oak 
 Romantic, tutnM by gelid lakes to stone. 
 
 Yet so disposM as if they owed their change 
 To what they now controul. Then open wide 
 Thy flood-gates : then let down thy torrent : then 
 Rejoice, as if the thundVing Tees * himself 
 ReignM there amid his cataracts sublime. 
 
 And thou hast cause for triumph ! kings them- 
 selves. 
 
 With all a nation^s wealth, an army^s toil. 
 
 If Nature frown averse, shall ne^er atchieve 
 
 * The fall of the Tees, near Middleton, is esteemed one 
 of the greatest in England. 
 
78 
 
 Such wonders. Nature^s was the glorious gift ; 
 Thy art her menial handmaid. Listening youths ! 
 To whose ingenuous hearts I still address 
 The friendly strain^ from such severe attempt 
 Let Prudence warn you. Turn to this clear rill. 
 Which, while I bid your bold ambition cease. 
 Puns murmuring at my side. O^er many a rood 
 Your skill may lead the wanderer : many a mound 
 Of pebbles raise, to fret her in her course 
 Impatient : louder then will be her song : 
 
 For she will ^plain, and gurgle, as she goes. 
 
 As does the widow'd ring-dove. Take, vain Pomp ! 
 Thy lakes, thy long canals, thy trim cascades. 
 Beyond them all true taste will dearly prize 
 This little dimpling treasure. Mark the cleft. 
 Through which she bursts to day. Behind that rock 
 A naiad dwells : Ligea is her name ; 
 
 And she has sisters in contiguous cells. 
 
 Who never saw the sun. Fond Fancy^s eye. 
 
 That loves to give locality and form 
 To what she prizes best, full oft pervades 
 Those hidden caverns, where pale chrysolites. 
 
 And glittering spars dart a mysterious gleam 
 Of inborn lustre, from the garish day 
 UnborrowM. There, by the wild goddess led. 
 Oft have I seen them bending o^er their urns, 
 Chaunting alternate airs of Dorian mood. 
 
79 
 
 While smooth they combM their white cerulean 
 locks 
 
 With shells of living pearl. Yes, let me own. 
 
 To these, or classic deities like these. 
 
 From very childhood was I prone to pay 
 Harmless idolatry. My infant eyes 
 First openM on that bleak and boisFrous shore. 
 Where Humberweds the nymphs of Trent and Ouse 
 To his and Ocean’s tritons : thence full soon 
 My youth retir’d, and left the busy strand 
 To Commerce and to Care. In Margaret’s grove *, 
 Beneath whose time-worn shade old Camus sleeps. 
 Was next my tranquil station : Science there 
 Sate musing ; and to those that lov’d the lore 
 Pointed, with mystic wand, to truths involv’d 
 In geometric symbols, scorning those. 
 
 Perchance too much, who woo’d the thriftless muse. 
 Here, though in warbling whisper oft I breath’d 
 The lay, were wanting, what young Fancy deems 
 The life-springs of her being, rocks, and caves. 
 And huddling brooks, and torrent-falls divine. 
 
 In quest of these, at summer’s vacant hour. 
 
 Pleas’d would I stray, when in a northern vale 
 (So chance ordain’d) a naiad sad I found, 
 
 * St. John’s Coilege, in Cambridge, founded by Marga- 
 ret Countess of Richmond, mother of Henry the Seventh. 
 
80 
 
 Robb’d of her silver vase : I soothed the nymph 
 With song of sympathy, and curst the fiend. 
 Who stole the gift of Thetis *. Hence the cause. 
 Why, favour^ by the blue-eyM sisterhood. 
 
 They sooth with songs my solitary ear. 
 
 Nor is Ligea silent — Long,^’ she cries. 
 
 Too long has man wag’d sacrilegious war 
 With the vex’d elements, and chief with that. 
 Whom elder Thales, and the bard of Thebes 
 Held first of things terrestrial ; nor misdeem’d » 
 For, when the Spirit creative deign’d to move. 
 He mov’d upon the waters. O revere 
 Our power : for was its vital force withheld. 
 Where then were Vegetation’s vernal bloom. 
 Where its autumnal wealth ? but we are kind. 
 As powerful ; O let reverence lead to love. 
 
 And both to emulation ! Not a rill. 
 
 That winds its sparkling current o’er the plain. 
 Reflecting to the sun bright recompence 
 For ev’ry beam he lends, but reads thy soul 
 A generous lecture. Not a pansy pale. 
 
 That drinks its daily nurture from that rill. 
 
 But breathes in fragrant accents to thy soul ; 
 
 * Alluding to the Ode to a Water Nymph, which the 
 author writ a year or two after his admission into the uni- 
 versity. See his Poems, ode ii. 
 
81 
 
 'So should’st thou feed the poor/ Whoever beheld 
 " Our humble train forsake their native mead 
 " To climb the haughty hill ? Ambition, speak, 
 " — He blushes, and is mute. When did our streams, 
 " By force unpent, in dull stagnation sleep ? 
 
 " Let Sloth unfold his arms and tell the time. 
 
 " Or, if the tyranny of Art infringed 
 Our rights, when did our patient floods submit 
 " Without recoil ? Servility retires, 
 
 " And clinks his gilded chain. O learn from us, 
 
 " And tell it to thy nation, British bard ! 
 
 " Ambition, Sloth, and SlavTy are the fiends 
 " That pull down mighty empires. If they scorn 
 " The awful truth, be thine to hold it dear. 
 
 " So, through the vale of life, thy flowing hours 
 " Shall glide serene ; and, like Ligea^s rill, 
 
 " Their free, yet not licentious course fulfill’d. 
 Sink in the ocean of Eternity.” 
 
 END OF THE THIRD BOOK. 
 
 G 
 

 ' r 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 '■<• ..‘-.'Hil 
 ■■ 'r.iT 
 
 . 1 ?: 
 
 
 
 
THE 
 
 ENGLISH GARDEN. 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 Nor yet withdraw thy aid, thou Nymph divine *! 
 That aid auspicious, which, in Art^s domain. 
 Already has reform’d whatever prevail’d 
 Of foreign, or of false ; has led the curve 
 That Nature loves thro’ all her sylvan haunts ; 
 
 Has stol’n the fence unnotic’d that arrests 
 Her vagrant herds ; giv’n lustre to her lawns. 
 Gloom to her groves, and, in expanse serene. 
 Devolv’d that wat’ry mirror at her feet. 
 
 O’er which she loves to bend and view her charms. 
 
 ^ Simplicity. See the beginning of the poem. The 
 following lines recapitulate the subject of the three preced- 
 ing books. The first, to the pause in ver. 4 • the second, 
 from thence to that in ver. 7 j and the third finishes with 
 the paragraph. 
 
84 
 
 And tell me thou, whoever hast new-arrang’d 
 By her chaste rules thy garden, if thy heart 
 Feels not the warm, the self-dilating glow 
 Of true Benevolence. Thy flocks, thy herds. 
 That browse luxurious o^er those very plots 
 Which once were barren, bless thee for the change'; 
 The birds of air (which thy funereal yews 
 Of shape uncouth, and leaden sons of earth, 
 Antaeus and Enceladus, with clubs 
 Uplifted, long had frighted from the scene) 
 
 Now pleas’d return, they perch on ev’ry spray. 
 And swell their little throats, and warble wild 
 Their vernal minstrelsy ; to Heav’n and thee 
 It is a hymn of thanks : do thou, like Heav’n, 
 With tutelary care reward their song. 
 
 Ere-while the Muse, industrious to combine 
 Nature’s own charms, with these alone adorn’d 
 The Genius of the scene ; but other gifts 
 She has in store, which gladly now she brings. 
 And he shall proudly wear. Know, when she broke 
 The spells of Fashion, from the crumbling wreck 
 Of her enchantments, sagely did she cull 
 Those relics rich of old Vitruvian skill. 
 
 With what the sculptor’s hand in classic days 
 Made breathe in brass or marble ; these the hag 
 Had purloin’d, and dispos’d in Folly’s fane ; 
 
85 
 
 To him these trophies of her victory 
 She bears ; and where his awful nod ordains 
 Conspicuous means to place. He shall direct 
 Her dubious judgment, from the various hoard 
 Of ornamental treasures, how to chuse 
 The simplest and the best ; on these his seal 
 Shall stamp great Nature^s imag^and his own. 
 
 To charm for unborn ages. — Fling the rest 
 Back to the beldame, bid her whirl them all 
 In her vain vortex ; lift them now to day. 
 
 Now plunge in night, as, thro^ the humid rack 
 Of April cloud, swift flits the trembling beam. 
 
 But precepts tire, and this fastidious age 
 Rejects the strain didactic : try we then 
 In livelier narrative the truths to veil 
 We dare not dictate. Sons of Albion, hear ! 
 
 The tale I tell is full of strange event. 
 
 And piteous circumstance ; yet deem not ye. 
 
 If names I feign, that therefore facts are feignM : 
 Nor hence refuse (what most augments the charm 
 Of storied woe) that fond credulity 
 Which binds th^ attentive soul in closer chains. 
 
 At manhood’s prime Alcander’s duteous tear 
 Fell on his father’s grave. The fair domain. 
 Which then became his ample heritage. 
 
86 
 
 That father had reformM ; each line destroy’d 
 Which Belgic dulness plann’d ; and Nature’s self 
 Restor’d to all the rights she wish’d to claim. 
 
 Crowning a gradual hill his mansion rose 
 In antient English grandeur : turrets, spires. 
 
 And windows, clifnbing high from base to roof 
 In wide and radiant rows, bespoke its birth 
 Coeval with those rich cathedral fanes, 
 
 (Gothic ill-nam’d) where harmony results 
 From disunited parts ; and shapes minute. 
 
 At once distinct and blended, boldly form 
 One vast majestic whole. No modern art 
 Had marr’d with misplac’d symmetry the pile. 
 Alcander held it sacred. On a height. 
 
 Which westering to its site the front survey’d. 
 
 He first his taste employ’d : for there a line 
 Of thinly scattered beech too tamely broke 
 The blank horizon. Draw we round yon knowl,” 
 Alcander cry’d, in stately Norman mode, 
 
 A wall embattled ; and within its guard 
 Let every structure needful for a farm 
 Arise in castle-semblance ; the huge barn 
 Shall with a mock portcullis arm the gate. 
 Where Ceres entering, o’er the flail-proof floor 
 In golden triumph rides ; some tower rotund 
 Shall to the pigeons and their callow youiiig 
 
87 
 
 '' Safe roost afford ; and ev^ry buttress broad. 
 Whose proud projection seeins a mass of stone. 
 Give space to stall the heifer, and the steed. 
 
 So shall each part, tho* turnM to rural use. 
 Deceive the eye with those bold feudal forms 
 That Fancy loves to gaze on.^^ This atchiev^d. 
 Now nearer home he calls returning Art 
 To hide the structure rude where Winter pounds 
 In conic pit his congelations hoar. 
 
 That Summer may his tepid beverage cool 
 With the chill luxury ; his dairy too 
 There stands of form unsightly : both to veil. 
 
 He builds of old disjointed moss-grown stone 
 A time-struck abbey An impending grove 
 Screens it behind with reverential shade ; 
 
 While bright in front the stream reflecting spreads. 
 Which winds a mimic river o’er his lawn. 
 
 * It was said in the first book, ver. 384, that of those 
 architectural objects which improved a fine natural English 
 prospect, the two principal ones were a castle and an abbey. 
 In conformity with this idea, Alcander first begins to ex- 
 ercise his taste, by forming a resemblance of those two ca- 
 pital artificial features, uniting them^ however, -with utility. 
 The precept is here meant to be conve5^ed by description, 
 which had before been given more directly in book ii. 
 ver. 21. 
 
 Beauty scorns fb dwell 
 Where Use is exil’d. 
 
88 
 
 The fane conventual there is dimly seen, 
 
 The mitred window, and the cloister pale. 
 
 With many a mouldering column ; ivy soon 
 Round the rude chinks her net of foliage spreads ; 
 Its verdant meshes seem to prop the wall. 
 
 One native glory, more than all sublime, 
 Alcander’s scene possest : ^twas Ocean’s self — 
 He, boist’rous king, against the eastern cliffs 
 Dash’d his white foam ; a verdant vale between 
 Gave splendid ingress to his world of waves. 
 Slanting this vale the mound of that clear stream 
 Lay hid in shade, which slowly lav’d his lawn : 
 But there set free, the rill resum’d its pace. 
 
 And hurried to the main. The dell it past 
 Was rocky and retir’d : here Art with ease 
 Might lead it o’er a grot, and fdter’d there. 
 
 Teach it to sparkle down its craggy sides. 
 
 And fall and tinkle on its pebbled floor. 
 
 Here then that grot he builds, and conchswith spars. 
 Moss petrified with branching corallines 
 In mingled mode arranges : all found here 
 Propriety of place ; what view’d the main 
 IVIight well the shelly gifts of Thetis bear. 
 
 Not so the inland cave : with richer store 
 Than those the neighb’ring mines and mountains 
 yield 
 
89 
 
 To hang its roof, would seem incongruous pride^ 
 And fright the local Genius from the scene *. 
 
 One vernal morn, as urging here the work> 
 Surrounded by his hinds, from mild to cold 
 The season changM, from cold to sudden storm. 
 From storm to whirlwind. To the angry main 
 Swiftly he turns, and sees a laden ship 
 Dismasted by its rage. Hie, hie we all,” 
 Alcander cryM, quick to the neigh bTing beach !” 
 They flew ; they came, but only to behold. 
 Tremendous sight ! the vessel dash its poop 
 Amid the boiling breakers. Need I tell 
 What strenuous arts were usM, when all were usM, 
 To save the sinking crew ? One tender maid 
 Alone escapM, savM by Alcander^s arm. 
 
 Who boldly swam to snatch her from the plank 
 To which she feebly clung ; swiftly to shore. 
 
 And swifter to his home, the youth conveyed 
 His clay-cold prize, who at his portal first 
 By one deep sigh a sign of life betrayed. 
 
 A maid so savM, if but by Nature blest 
 
 * A precept is here rather more than hinted at but it 
 appeared to be so well founded, and yet so seldom attended 
 to by the fabricators of grottos, that it seemed necessary 
 to slide back a little from the narrative into the didactic, to 
 inculcate it the more strongly. 
 
90 
 
 With common charms, had soon awak’d a flame 
 More strong than pity, in that melting heart 
 Which pity warm’d before. But she was fair 
 As poets picture Hebe, or the Spring ; 
 
 Graceful withal, as if each limb were cast 
 In that ideal mould whence Raphael drew 
 His Galatea *. Yes, th’ impassion’d youth 
 Felt more than pity when he view’d her charms. 
 Yet she, (ah, strange to tell 1) tho’ much he lov’d, 
 Supprest as much that sympathetic flame 
 Which love like his should kindle : did he kneel 
 In rapture at her feet — she bow’d the head. 
 
 And coldly bade him rise ; or did he plead 
 In terms of purest passion for a smile — 
 
 She gave him but a tear : his manly form. 
 
 His virtues, ev’n the courage that preserv’d 
 Her life, beseem’d no sentiment to wake 
 Warmer than gratitude ; and yet the love 
 Withheld from him she freely gave his scenes ; 
 
 ^ Alluding to a letter of that famous painter, written to 
 his friend Count Baltaser Castiglione, when he was painting 
 his celebrated picture of Galatea, in which he tells him, 
 “ essendo carestia di belle donne, io mi servo di certa idea 
 
 che viene alia mente.” See Bellori Discriz. delle ima-r 
 gini dipinte da Raffaelo d^Urbinoy or the Life of B. Castig- 
 lione, prefixed to the London edition of his book entitled, 
 II Cortegiano. 
 
91 
 
 Oil all their charms a just applause bestow’d ; 
 
 And, if she e’er was happy, only then 
 When wand’ring where those charms were most 
 display’d. 
 
 As thro’ aneighb’ring grove, where antient beech 
 Their awful foliage flung, Alcander led 
 The pensive maid along, Tell me,” she cry’d. 
 Why, on these forest features all-intent, 
 
 ** Forbears my friend some scene distinct to give 
 ** To Flora and her fragrance ? Well I know 
 That in the general landscape’s broad expanse 
 Their little blooms are lost ; but here are glades^ 
 Circled wdth shade, yet pervious to the sun. 
 Where, if enamell’d with their rainbow hues. 
 The eye would catch their splendor : turn thy taste, 
 Ev’n in this grassy circle where we stand. 
 
 To form their plots ; there w^eave a ^voodbine 
 bower. 
 
 And call that bower Nertna’s.” At the word 
 Alcander smil’d ; his fancy instant form’d 
 The fragrant scene she wish’d ; and Love, with art 
 Uniting, soon produc’d the finish’d whole. 
 
 Down to the south the glade by Nature lean’d 
 Art form’d the slope still softer, opening there 
 Its foliage, and to each Etesian gale 
 Admittance free dispensing ; thickest shade 
 
02 
 
 Guarded the rest. His taste will best conceive 
 The new arrangement^ whose free footsteps, usM 
 To forest haunts, have piercM their opening dells. 
 Where frequent tufts of sweetbriar, box, or thorn. 
 Steal on the greensward, but admit fair space 
 For many a mossy maze to wind between. 
 
 So here did Art arrange her flowery groups 
 Irregular, yet not in patches quaint *, 
 
 But interpos'd between the wand'ring lines 
 Of shaven turf which twisted to the path. 
 
 Gravel or sand, that in as wild a wave 
 Stole round the verdant limits of the scene ; 
 Leading the eye to many a sculptur'd bust 
 On shapely pedestal, of sage, or bard. 
 
 Bright heirs of fame, who living lov'd the haunts 
 
 * There is nothing in picturesque gardening which should 
 not have its archetype in unadorned nature. Now, as we 
 never see any of her plains dotted with dissevered patches 
 of any sort of vegetables, except, perhaps, some of her 
 more barren heaths, where even furze can grow but spar- 
 ingly, and which form the most disagreeable of her scenes, 
 therefore, the present common mode of dotting clumps of 
 flowers or shrubs on a grass-plat, without union, and w ith- 
 out other meaning than that of appearing irregular, ought 
 to be avoided. It is the form and easy flow of the grassy 
 interstices (if I may so call them) that the designer ought 
 first to have a regard to; and if these l>e well formed, the 
 spaces for flowers or shrubbery will be at the same time as- 
 certained. 
 
93 
 
 So fragrant, so sequester’d. Many an urn 
 There too had place, with votive lay inscrib’d 
 To Freedom, Friendship, Solitude, or Love. 
 
 And now each flow’r that bears transplanting 
 change. 
 
 Or blooms indigenous, adorn’d the scene : 
 
 Only Nerina’s wish, her woodbine bower. 
 Remain’d to crown the whole. Here, far beyond 
 That humble wish, her lover’s genius form’d 
 A glittering fane, where rare and alien plants 
 Might safely flourish * ; where the citron sweet. 
 And fragrant orange, rich in fruit and flowers. 
 Might hang their silver stars, their golden globes. 
 On the same odorous stem. Yet scorning there 
 The glassy penthouse of ignoble form, 
 
 High on Ionic shafts he bade it tower 
 A proud rotunda ; to its sides conjoin’d 
 Two broad piazzas in theatric curve. 
 
 ^ M. Le Giradln, in an elegant French essay, written 
 on the same subject, and formed on the same principles 
 with this poem, is the only writer that I have seen (or at 
 least recollect) who has attempted to give a stove or hot- 
 house a picturesque effect. It is his hint, pursued and 
 considerably dilated, which forms the description of Al- 
 cander’s conservatory. See his essay, De la Composition 
 des Passages, Geneva, 1777. 
 
94 
 
 Ending in equal porticos sublime. 
 
 Glass roofM the whole, and sidelong to the south, 
 Twixt ev^ry fluted column, lightly rear'd 
 Its wall pellucid. All within was day. 
 
 Was genial Summer's day, for secret stoves 
 Thro' all the pile solstitial warmth convey'd. 
 
 These led thro' isles of fragrance to the dome. 
 Each way in circling quadrant. That bright spaed 
 Guarded the spicy tribes from Afric's shore. 
 
 Or Ind, or Araby, Sabaean plants 
 
 Weeping with nard, and balsam. In the midst 
 
 A statue stood, the work of Attic art ; 
 
 Its thin light drapery, cast in fluid folds. 
 Proclaim'd its antientry ; all, save the head. 
 Which stole (for Love is prone to gentle thefts) 
 The features of Nerina ; yet that head. 
 
 So perfect in resemblance ; all its air 
 So tenderly impassion'd ; to the trunk. 
 
 Which Grecian skill had form'd, so aptly join'd, 
 Phidias himself might seem to have inspir'd 
 The chissel, brib'd to do the am'rous fraud. 
 
 One graceful hand held forth a flow'ry wreath. 
 The other prest her zone ; while round the base 
 Dolphins, and triton shells, and plants marine 
 Proclaim'd, that Venus, rising from the sea. 
 
 Had veiPd in Flora's modest vest her charms. 
 
95 
 
 Such was the fane, and such the deity 
 Who seemM, with smile auspicious, to inhale 
 That incense which a tributary world 
 From all its regions round her altar breathM : 
 
 And yet, when to the shrine Alcander led 
 His living goddess, only with a sigh. 
 
 And starting tear, the statue and the dome 
 Reluctantly she viewM. And why,^^ she cry’d. 
 Why would my best preserver here erect. 
 
 With all the fond idolatry of love, 
 
 A wretches image whom his pride should scorn, 
 (For so his country bids him). Drive me hence. 
 Transport me quick to Gallia^s hostile shore. 
 Hostile to thee, yet not, alas ! to her 
 Who there was meant to sojourn ; there, per- 
 chance. 
 
 My father, wafted by more prospVous gales. 
 Now mourns his daughter lost ; my brother there 
 Perhaps now sooths that venerable age 
 He should not sooth alone. Vain thought ! per- 
 chance. 
 
 Both perishM at Esopus — do not blush. 
 
 It was not thou that lit the ruthless flame ; 
 
 It was not thou, that, like remorseless Cain, 
 Thirsted for brother's blood : thy heart disdains 
 The savage imputation. Rest thee there. 
 
 And, tho^ thou pitiest, yet forbear to grace. 
 
96 
 
 A wretched alien, and a rebel deem’d. 
 
 With honours ill-beseeming her to claim. 
 
 My wish, thou know’st, was humble as my state; 
 I only begg’d a little woodbine bower. 
 
 Where I might sit aiid weep, while all around 
 The lilies and the blue-bells hung their heads 
 In seeming sympathy.” Does then the scene 
 Displease ?” the disappointed lover cry’d ; 
 
 Alas ! too much it pleases,” sigh’d the fair ; 
 Too strongly paints the passion which stern Fate 
 Forbids me to return.” Dost thou then love 
 Some happier youth ?” No, tell thy generous soul 
 Indeed I do not.” More she would have said. 
 But gushing grief prevented. From the fane 
 Silent he led her ; as from Eden’s bower 
 The sire of men his weeping partner led. 
 
 Less lovely, and less innocent than she. 
 
 Yet still Alcander hop’d what last she sigh’d 
 Spoke more than gratitude : the war might end ; 
 Her father might consent ; for that alone 
 Now seem’d the duteous barrier to his bliss. 
 Already had he sent a faithful friend 
 To learn if France the reverend exile held ; 
 
 That friend return’d not. Meanwhile, ev’ry sun 
 Which now (a year elaps’d) diurnal rose 
 Beheld her still more pensive ; inward pangs. 
 
97 
 
 From griePs concealment, hourly seem’d to force 
 Health from her cheek, and quiet from her soul. 
 Alcander mourn’d the change, yet still he hop’d ; 
 For Love to Hope his flickering taper lends. 
 When Reason with his steady torch retires : 
 Hence did he try by ever-varying arts. 
 
 And scenes of novel charm her grief to calm. 
 
 Nor did he not employ the Syren powers 
 Of Music and of Song ; or Painting thine. 
 
 Sweet source of pure delight ! But I record 
 Those arts alone, which form my sylvan theme. 
 
 At stated hours, full oft had he observed. 
 
 She fed with welcome grain the household fowl 
 That trespassed on his lawn ; this wak’d a wish 
 To give her feather’d fav’rites space of land. 
 
 And lake appropriate : in a neighb’ring copse 
 He plann’d the scene ; for there the crystal spring. 
 That form’d his river, from a rocky cleft 
 First bubbling broke to day ; and spreading there. 
 Slept on its rushes. Here, my delving hinds,” 
 He cry’d, shall soon the marshy soil remove. 
 And spread, in brief extent, a glittering lake 
 Chequer’d with isles of verdure ; on yon rock 
 A sculptur’d river-god shall rest his urn ; 
 
 And thro’ that urn the native fountain flow. 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 Thy wishM-for bower, Nerina, shall adorn 
 The southern bank ; the downy race, that swim 
 The lake, or pace the shore, with livelier charms. 
 Yet no less rural, here will meet thy glance. 
 Than flowers inanimate/^ Full soon was scoopt 
 The waFry bed, and soon, by margin green. 
 
 And rising banks, inclosM ; the highest gave 
 Site to a rustic fabric, shelving deep 
 Within the thicket, and in front composed 
 Of three unequal arches, lowly all 
 The surer to expel the noontide glare. 
 
 Yet yielding liberal inlet to the scene ; 
 
 Woodbine with jasmine carelessly entwinM 
 ConceaFd the needful masonry, and hung 
 In free festoons, and vested all the cell. 
 
 Hence did the lake, the islands, and the rock, 
 
 A living landscape spread ; the featherM fleet. 
 Led by two mantling swans, at ev^ry creek 
 Now touchM, and now unmoorM ; now on full sail, 
 With pennons spread and oary feet they plyM 
 Their vagrant voyage ; and now, as if becalmM, 
 ^Tween shore and shore at anchor seemM to sleep. 
 Around those shores the fowl that fear the stream 
 At random rove : hither hot Guinea sends 
 Her gadding troop ; here, midst his speckled dames. 
 The pigmy chanticleer of Bantam winds 
 His clarion ; while, supreme in glittering state. 
 
99 
 
 The peacock spreads his rainbow train, with eyes 
 Of sapphire bright, irradiate each with gold. 
 Meanwhile from evTy spray the ringdoves coo. 
 The linnets warble, captive none *, but lur’d 
 By food to haunt the umbrage : all the glade 
 Is life, is music, liberty, and love. 
 
 And is there now, to pleasure or to use. 
 
 One scene devoted in the wide domain 
 Its master has not polish’d ? Rumour spreads 
 Its praises far, and many a stranger stops 
 With curious eye to censure or admire. 
 
 To all his lawns are pervious ; oft himself 
 With courteous greeting will the critic hail. 
 
 And join him in the circuit. Give we here 
 (If Candour will with patient ear attend) 
 
 The social dialogue Alcander held 
 With one, a youth of mild yet manly mein. 
 
 Who seem’d to taste the beauties he survey’d. 
 
 * See Rousseau’s charming description of the Garden 
 of Julie, Nouvelle Eloise, 4 partie, lett. 11. In conse- 
 quence of pursuing his idea, no birds are introduced into 
 Alcander’s menagerie, but such as are either domesti- 
 cated, or chuse to visit it for the security and food they find 
 there. If any of my more delicate readers wish to have 
 theirs stocked with rarer kind of fowls, they must invent a 
 picturesque bird-cage for themselves. 
 
100 
 
 Little, I fear me, will a stranger’s eye 
 Find here to praise, where rich Vitruvian art 
 Has rear’d no temples, no triumphal arcs ; 
 
 Where no Palladian bridges span the stream. 
 
 But all is homebred Fancy.” For that cause. 
 And chiefly that,” the polish’d youth reply’d, 
 
 I view each part with rapture. Ornament, 
 When foreign or fantastic, never charm’d 
 My judgment ; here I tread on British ground 
 With British annals all I view accords. 
 
 Some Yorkist, or Lancastrian baron bold. 
 
 To awe his vassals, or to stem his foes. 
 
 Yon massy bulwark built ; on yonder pile. 
 
 In ruin beauteous, I distinctly mark 
 The ruthless traces of stern Henry’s hand.” 
 
 Yet,” cry’d Alcander, (interrupting mild 
 The stranger’s speech) if so yon antient seat. 
 Pride of my ancestors, had mock’d repair. 
 
 And by Proportion’s Greek or Roman laws 
 ‘‘ That pile had been rebuilt, thou would ’st not 
 then, 
 
 I trust, have blam’d, if, there on Doric shafts 
 A temple rose ; if some tall obelisk 
 O’ertopt yon grove, or bold triumphal arch 
 Usurpt my castle’s station.” — Spare me yet 
 Yon solemn ruin,” the quick youth return’d. 
 
101 
 
 No moulding aqueduct, no yawning crypt 
 Sepulchral, will console me for its fate/^ 
 
 I mean not that,” the master of the scene 
 Reply’d ; tho^ classic rules to modern piles ' 
 Should give the just arrangement, shun we here 
 By those to form our ruins ; much we own 
 They please, when, by Paninas pencil drawn. 
 Or darkly ^gravM by Piranesi^s hand. 
 
 And fitly might some Tuscan garden grace ; 
 
 But Timers rude mace has here all Roman piles 
 Leveled so low, that who, on British ground 
 Attempts the task, builds but a splendid lie 
 Which mocks historic credence. Hence the cause 
 Why Saxon piles or Norman here prevail : 
 
 Form they a rude, ^tis yet an English whole.” 
 
 And much I praise thy choice,” the stranger 
 cryM ; 
 
 Such chaste selection shames the common mode. 
 Which, mingling structures of far distant times. 
 Far distant regions, here, perchance, erects 
 A fane to Freedom, where her Brutus stands 
 In act to strike the tyrant ; there a tent. 
 
 With crescent crownM, with scymitars adorned, 
 ** Meet for some Bajazet ; northward we turn. 
 
102 
 
 And lo ! a pigmy pyramid pretends 
 We tread the realms of Pharaoh; quickly thence 
 Our southern step presents us heaps of stone 
 RangM in a Druid circle. Thus from age 
 To age, from clime to clime incessant borne. 
 Imagination flounders headlong on. 
 
 Till, like fatiguM Villario *, soon we find 
 We better like a field Nicely thy hand 
 The childish landscape touches,^^ cries his host. 
 For Fashion ever is a wayward child ; 
 
 Yet sure we might forgive her faults like these. 
 If but in separate or in single scenes 
 She thus with Fancy wantonM : should I lead 
 Thy step, my friend, (for our accordant tastes 
 Prompt me to give thee that familiar name) 
 Behind this screen of elm, thou there might^stfind 
 I too had idly playM the truanPs part. 
 
 And broke the bounds of judgment/^ Lead 
 me there,^^ 
 
 Briskly the youth returiFd, for having proved 
 Thy epic genius here, why not peruse 
 Thy lighter ode or eclogue Smiling thence, 
 Alcander led him to the woodbine bower 
 Which last our song describ’d, who seated there. 
 In silent transport view’d the lively scene. 
 
 * See Pope’s Epistle to Lord Burlington, ver. 88. 
 
103 
 
 I see/^ his host resum’d, my sportive art 
 Finds pardon here ; not ev’n yon classic form. 
 Pouring his liquid treasures from his vase, 
 
 Tho’ foreign from the soil, provokes thy frown *. 
 Try we thy candor farther : higher art. 
 
 And more luxurious, haply too more vain. 
 Adorns yon southern coppice.” On they past 
 Thro’ a wild thicket, till the perfum’d air 
 Gave to another sense its prelude rich 
 On what the eye should feast. But now the grove 
 Expands ; and now the rose, the garden’s queen. 
 Amidst her blooming subjects’ humbler charms. 
 On ev’ry plot her crimson pomp displays. 
 
 Oh Paradise !” the ent’ring youth exclaim’d. 
 Groves whose rich trees weep odorous gums and 
 balm. 
 
 Others whose fruit, burnish’d with golden rind, 
 
 * It is hoped that, from the position of this river- god in 
 the menagerie ; from the situation of the busts and vases 
 in the flower garden, andthatof the statue in the conserva- 
 tory, the reader will deduce the following general precept ; 
 “ that all adventitious ornaments of sculpture ought either 
 to be accompanied with a proper back-ground, (as the 
 painters term it) or introduced as a part of architectural 
 “ scenery ; and that when, on the contrary, they are 
 ‘‘ placed in open lawns or parterres, according to the old 
 ‘‘ mode, they become, like Antaeus and Enceladus, men- 
 tioned in the beginning of this book, mere scare-cro-ji>sJ*^ 
 
104 
 
 Hang amiable, Hesperian fables true. 
 
 If true, here only Thus, in Milton^s phrase 
 Sublime, the youth his admiration poured. 
 
 While passing to the dome : his next short step 
 UnveiPd the central statue : Heavens ! just 
 
 Heav’ns,^^ 
 
 He cryM, ^tis my Nerina Thine, mad youth ! 
 
 Forego the word,^^ Alcander said, and pausM ; 
 His utterance failM; a thousand clustVing thoughts. 
 And all of blackest omen to his peace, 
 
 RecoiPd upon his brain, deadenM all sense. 
 
 And at the statue^s base him headlong cast, 
 
 A lifeless load of being. — Ye whose hearts 
 
 Are ready at Humanity ^s soft call 
 
 To drop the tear, I charge you weep not yet. 
 
 But fearfully suspend the bursting woe : 
 
 Nerina^s self appears ; the further isle 
 She, fate-directed, treads. Does she too faint ? 
 Would Heaven she could ! it were a happy swoon 
 Might soften her fixM form, more rigid now 
 Than is her marble semblance. One stiff hand 
 Lies leaden on her breast ; the other raisM 
 To heav’n, and half-way clenchM; stedfast her eyes. 
 Yet viewless ; and her lips, which opM to shriek. 
 Can neither shriek nor close : so might she stand 
 
 S See Milton’s Paradise Lost, book iv. ver. 248, &c. 
 
105 
 
 For ever. He, whose sight causM the dread change, 
 Tho’ now he clasps her in his anxious arms. 
 
 Fails to unbend one sinew of her frame ; 
 
 Tis ice , ^tis steel. But see, Alcander wakes ; 
 And waking, as by magic sympathy, 
 
 Nerina whispers, All is well, my friend ; 
 
 ^was but a vision ; I may yet revive 
 
 But still his arm supports me ; aid him, friend. 
 And bear me swiftly to my woodbine bower ; 
 For there indeed I wish to breathe my last.” 
 
 So saying her cold cheek, and parched brow, 
 TurnM to a livid paleness ; her dim eyes 
 ^unk in their sockets ; sharp contraction prest 
 Her temples, ears, and nostrils : signs well known 
 To those that ^tend the dying*. Both the youths 
 Perceived the change ; and had stern Death him- 
 self 
 
 WavM his black banner visual o’er their heads, 
 
 * These lines are taken from the famous passage in Hip- 
 pocrates, in his book of Prognostics, which has been held 
 so accurately descriptive, that dying persons are from 
 hence usually said to have the facies Hippocratica. The 
 passage is as follows : Fig o^siuj ocp'^’aXjW.ot koiXoi, xporu(pot 
 ^vfXUJEwlwA.OTsgf wra ■^vy^pcc ytai k.cu o Xo^oi Twy 
 
 wrivv aTTsg'^a.fXfxmi, xca ro Sspfxa to Trspi to fAsIwzcrov, THX»jpov t« 
 nai TrsctlslufAevov %cti fsv, %ui to t» 
 
 ‘TrpoTwwy yfwpov 7t v >tcti (AfXay toy %ou 'nt’hioy r\ lAoKi^^^hg. 
 
106 
 
 It could not more appal. With trembling step. 
 And silent, both convey’d her to the bower. 
 
 Her languid limbs there decently composM, 
 
 She thus her speech resum’d : Attend my words. 
 
 Brave Cleon ! dear Alcander ! generous pair : 
 For both have tender interest in this heart. 
 Which soon shall beat no more. That I am thine 
 By a dear father’s just commands I own. 
 
 Much honourM Cleon ! take the hand he gave. 
 And with it. Oh, if I could give my heart. 
 Thou wert its worthy owner. All I can, 
 
 (And that preserv’d with chastest fealty) 
 Duteous I give thee, Cleon it is thine ; 
 
 Not ev’n this dear preserver e’er could gain 
 More from my soul than friendship^ — that be his ; 
 Yet let me own, what, dying, sooths the pang, 
 
 ^ That, had thyself and duty ne^er been known. 
 He must have had my love.” She pausM, and dropt 
 A silent tear ; then prest the stranger’s hand ; 
 Then bow’d her head upon Alcander’s breast. 
 And bless them both, kind Heav’n !” she pray’d 
 and died. 
 
 And blest art thou,” cry’d Cleon (in a voice 
 Struggling with grief for utterance) blest to die 
 Ere thou hadst question’d me, and I perforce 
 
107 
 
 Had told a tale which must have sent thy soul 
 In horror from thy bosom. Now it leaves 
 A smile of peace upon those pallid lips. 
 
 That speaks its parting happy. Go, fair saint ! 
 Go to thy palm-crownM father ! thronM in bliss. 
 And seated by his side, thou wilt not now 
 Deplore the savage stroke that seaPd his doom ; 
 Go hymn the Fount of Mercy, who, from ill 
 Educing good, makes ev^n a death like his, 
 
 A life surchargM with tender woes like thine. 
 The road to joys eternal. Maid, farewell ! 
 
 I leave the casket that thy virtues held 
 To Him whose breast sustains it ; more belovM, 
 Perhaps more worthy, yet not loving more 
 Than did thy wretched Cleon. At the word 
 He bathM in tears the hand she dying gave, 
 ReturnM it to her side, and hasty rose. 
 
 Alcander, starting from his trance of grief, 
 
 CryM, stay, I charge thee stay and shall he 
 stay,^^ 
 
 Cleon replyM, whose presence stabbM thy peace? 
 Hear this before we part : that breathless maid 
 Was daughter to a venerable sage. 
 
 Whom Boston, when with peace and safety blest. 
 In rapture heard pour from his hallowM tongue 
 Religion^s purest dictates. ^Twas my chance, 
 
 In early period of our civil broils. 
 
108 
 
 To save his precious life : and hence the sire 
 Did to my love his daughter's charms consign ; 
 But, till the war should cease, if ever cease. 
 Deferred our nuptials. Whither she was sent 
 In search of safety, well, I trust thou know’st ; 
 He meant to follow ; but those ruthless flames. 
 That spar’d nor friend nor foe, nor sex nor age. 
 Involv’d the village, where on sickly couch 
 He lay confin’d, and whither he had fled 
 Awhile to sojourn. There (I see thee shrink) 
 Was he that gave Nerina being burnt ! 
 
 Burnt by thy countrymen ! to ashes burnt ! 
 Fraternal hands and Christian lit the flame. — 
 
 Oh thou hast cause to shudder. I meanwhile. 
 With his brave son a distant warfare wag’d ; 
 And him, now I have found the prize I sought. 
 And finding lost, I hasten to rejoin ; 
 
 Vengeance and glory call me.” At the" word. 
 Not fiercer does the tigress quit her cave 
 To seize the hinds that robb’d her of her young. 
 Than he the bower. Stay, I conjure thee, stay,” 
 Alcander cry’d, but ere the word was spoke 
 Cleon was seen no more. Then be it so,” 
 
 The youth continu’d, clasping to his heart 
 The beauteous corse, and smiling as he spoke, 
 (Yet such a smile as tar out-sorrows tears) 
 
 Now thou art mine entirely — Now no more 
 
109 
 
 Shall Duty dare disturb us — Love alone — 
 
 But hark ! he comes again — Away, vain fear I 
 ^Twas but the fluttering of thy featherM flock. 
 True to their custom’d hour, behold they troop 
 From island, grove, and lake. Arise, my love. 
 Extend thy hand — I lift it, but it falls. 
 
 Hence then, fond fools, and pine ! Nerina’s hand 
 Has lost the power to feed you. Hence and die.^^ 
 
 Thus ^plaining, to his lips the icy palm 
 He lifted, and with ardent passion kissM, 
 
 Then cryM in agony, on this dear hand. 
 
 Once tremblingly alive to Lovers soft touch, 
 
 I hopM to seal my faith. Tlys thought awak’d 
 Another sad soliloquy, which they. 
 
 Whoever have lovM, will from their hearts supply^ 
 And they who have not will but hear and smile. 
 
 And let them smile, but let the scorners learn 
 There is a solemn luxury in grief 
 Which they shall nevertaste; well known to those. 
 And only those, in Solitude^s deep gloom 
 Who heave the sigh sincerely : Fancy there 
 Waits the fit moment ; and, when Time has calmed 
 The first overwhelming tempest of their woe. 
 Piteous she steals upon the mourner’s breast 
 Her precious balm to shed : Oh, it has power. 
 
110 
 
 Has magic power to soften and to sooth. 
 
 Thus duly minister^. Alcander felt 
 
 The charm, yet not till many a lingering moon 
 
 Had hung upon her zenith o^er his couch. 
 
 And heard his midnight wailings. Does he stray 
 But near the fated temple, or the bower ? 
 
 He feels a chilly monitor within. 
 
 Who bids him pause. Does he at distance view 
 His grot ? ^tis darkenM with Nerina^s storm 
 Ev^n at the blaze of noon. Yet there are walks 
 The lost one never trod, and there are seats 
 Where he was never happy by her side. 
 
 And these he still can sigh in. Here at length. 
 As if by chance, kind Fancy brought her aid. 
 When wandTing thro’ a grove of sable yew. 
 Rais’d by his ancestors ; their Sabbath-path 
 Led thro’ its gloom, what time too dark a stole 
 Was o’er Religion’s decent features drawn 
 By puritanic zeal. Long had their boughs 
 Forgot the sheers ; the spire, the holy ground 
 They banish’d by their umbrage. What if here,” 
 Cry’d the sweet soother, in a whisper soft, 
 
 Someopen space were form’d, where othershades. 
 Yet all of solemn sort, cypress and bay 
 Funereal, pensive birch its languid arms 
 That droops, with waving willows deem’d to weep. 
 And shiv’ring aspens mixt their varied green ; 
 
Ill 
 
 What if yon trunk, shorn of its murky crest, 
 Reveafd the sacred fane Alcander heard 
 The charmer ; evTy accent seem’d his own. 
 
 So much they touch’d his heart’s sad unison. 
 
 Yes, yes,” he cry’d, Why not behold it all ? 
 That bough remov’d shews me the very vault 
 Where my Nerina sleeps, and where, when 
 Heav’n 
 
 In pity to my plaint the mandate seals. 
 
 My dust with her’s shall mingle.” Now his hinds^ 
 Call’d to the task, their willing axes wield ; 
 
 Joyful to see, as witless of the cause. 
 
 Their much-lov’d lord his sylvan arts resume. 
 
 And next, within the centre of the gloom, 
 
 A shed of twisting roots and living moss. 
 
 With rushes thatch’d, with wattled oziers lin’d. 
 
 He bids them raise * : it seem’d a hermit’s cell ; 
 
 * If this building is found to be in its right position, struc- 
 tures of the same kind will be thought improperly placed 
 when situated, as they frequently are, on an eminence 
 commanding an extensive prospect. 1 have either seen or 
 heard of one of this kind, where the builder seemed to be 
 so much convinced of its incongruity, that he endeavoured 
 to atone for it by the following ingenious motto: 
 
 Despicere unde queas alios, passimque videre 
 Errare, atque viam palanteis quasrere vitae. 
 
 Luc. lib. ii. ver. 9, 
 
 But it may be said, that real hermitages are frequently 
 
112 
 
 Yet void of hour-glass, scull, and maple dish. 
 
 Its mimic garniture : Alcander^s taste 
 Disdains to trick with emblematic toys 
 The place where he and Melancholy mean 
 To fix Nerina^s bust, her genuine bust. 
 
 The model of the marble. There he hides. 
 
 Close as a miser^s gold, the sculptur’d clay ; 
 
 And but at early morn and latest eve 
 Unlocks the simple shrine, and heaves a sigh ; 
 Then does he turn, and thro’ the glhnm’ring glade 
 Cast a long glance upon her house of death ; 
 
 Then views the bust again, and drops a tear. 
 
 Is this idolatry, ye sage ones say ? 
 
 Or, if ye doubt, go view the num’rous train 
 Of poor and fatherless his care consoles ; 
 
 The sight will tell thee, he that dries their tears 
 Has unseen angels hov’ring o’er his head. 
 
 Who leave their Heav’n to see him shed his own. 
 
 Here close we, sweet Simplicity, the tale. 
 
 And with it let us yield to youthful bards 
 That Dorian reed we but awak’d to voice 
 
 found on high mountains. Yet there the difficulty of ac- 
 cess gives that idea of retirement, not easily to be con- 
 veyed by imitations of them in a garden scene, without 
 much accompanying shade and that lowness of situatio* 
 which occasions a seclusion from all gay objects. 
 
113 
 
 When Fancy prompted, and when Leisure smiPd ,* 
 Hopeless of general praise, and well repaid. 
 
 If they of classic ear, unpallM by rhyme. 
 
 Whom changeful pause can please, and numbers free. 
 Accept our song with candour. They, perchance. 
 Led by the Muse to solitude and shade. 
 
 May turn that art we sing to soothing use. 
 
 At this ill-omenM hour, when Rapine rides 
 In titled triumph ; when Corruption waves 
 Her banners broadly in the face of day, v 
 And shews th^ indignant world the host of slaves 
 She turns from Honour’s standard. Patient there. 
 Yet not desponding, shall the sons of Peace 
 Await the day, when, smarting with his wrongs. 
 Old England’s Genius wakes; when with him w akes 
 That plain Integrity, Contempt of gold. 
 
 Disdain of slav’ry, liberal Awe of rule. 
 
 Which fixt the rights of People, Peers, and Prince, 
 And on them founded the majestic pile 
 Of British Freedom ; bade fair Albion rise 
 The scourge of tyrants ; sovereign of the seas ; 
 And arbitress of empires. Oh return. 
 
 Ye long-lost train of Virtues ! swift return 
 To save (’tis Albion prompts your Poet’s prayer) 
 Her throne, her altars, and her laureat bowers. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 I 
 
a ;; i?::- 
 
 ' rOVl; '- 'I'J ■.... ’ 
 
GENERAL POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 Few Poems, in the course of their composition., 
 have been laid aside and resumed more casually, or, 
 in consequence, published more leisurely, than the 
 foregoing ; on which account, while it does not 
 pretend to the Horatian merit of a nine-years scru- 
 tiny under the correcting hand of its author, it 
 will not thence, he may perhaps hope, be found 
 to have that demerit which arises from ill-con- 
 nected parts and an indigested plan. For, as a 
 scheme was formed for the whole four books before 
 even the first was written ; and as that scheme has 
 since been pursued with very little, if any devia- 
 tion, it is presumed that the three latter books will 
 be found strictly consonant with the general prin- 
 ciples advanced in the former ; which, as it con- 
 tained the principles, and ended episodically with 
 a kind of historic deduction of the rise and pro^ 
 gress of the art, might have been considered in 
 the light of an entire work, (as the advertisement 
 
116 
 
 before it hinted) had the succeeding books been 
 never written. 
 
 However^ as the whole design is at length com- 
 pleted, it may not be amiss to give in this place a 
 short analysis of the several books, in their order, 
 to shew their connection one with another, and to 
 obviate a few objections which have been made to 
 certain parts of each, by some persons, whose 
 opinions I highly respect ; objections which, I 
 flatter myself, might arise from their having exa- 
 mined those parts separately, as the separate pub- 
 lication of the books necessarily led them to do ; 
 and which, perhaps, had they seen the whole to- 
 gether, they would not have found of so much im- 
 portance. 
 
 I. The first book, as I have said, contains the 
 general principles of the art, which are shewn to 
 be no other than those which constitute beauty in 
 the sister art of landscape painting ; beauty which 
 results from a well-chosen variety of curves, in 
 contradistinction to that of architecture, which 
 arises from a judicious symmetry of right lines, 
 and which is there shewn to have afforded the 
 principle on which that formal disposition of gar- 
 den ground, which our ancestors borrowed from 
 
117 
 
 the French and Dutch, proceeded : a principle 
 never adopted by nature herself, and therefore 
 constantly to be avoided by those whose business it 
 is to embellish nature. 
 
 I know of no objection that has been made to 
 any thing that I have asserted on this head, except 
 to that part in which I have exploded vistas and 
 avenues, which, it has been said, have in them- 
 selves a considerable share of intrinsic beauty. I 
 am myself far from denying this ; I only assert 
 that their beauty is not picturesque beauty : and 
 therefore, that it is to be rejected by those who 
 follow picturesque principles. It is architectural 
 beauty, and accords only with architectural works. 
 Where the artist follows those principles, vistas are 
 certainly admissible ; and the French, who have 
 so long followed them, have therefore not impro- 
 perly (though one cannot help smiling at the title) 
 given us in their Dictionary of Sciences, an article 
 of Architecture du Jardinage, But did Gaspar 
 Poussin, or Claude Lorrain, ever copy these beau- 
 ties on their canvass ? or would they have pro- 
 duced a picturesque effect by their means if they 
 had ? I think this single consideration will induce 
 every person of common taste to allow that these 
 
118 
 
 two principles oppose one another, and that, when- 
 ever they appear together, they offend the eye of 
 the beholder by their heterogeneous beauty. If 
 therefore, vistas are ever to be admitted, or rather 
 to be retained, it is only where they form an ap- 
 proach to some superb mansion, so situated, that 
 the principal prospect and ground allotted to pic- 
 turesque improvement lie entirely on the other 
 side ; so much so, that the two different modes of 
 planting can never appear together from any given 
 point of view , and this is the utmost that I can 
 concede on this subject. 
 
 II. I’he picturesque principle being thus esta- 
 blished in the first book, as well by proofs of its 
 beauty when followed, as of the deformity which 
 results from its being deserted, the second book 
 proceeds to a more practical discussion of the sub- 
 ject, but confines itself to one point only, the dis- 
 position of the ground plan, and, that very mate- 
 rial business immediately united with it, the proper 
 disposition and formation of the paths and fences. 
 The necessity of attending constantly to the curvi- 
 linear principle is first shewn, not only in the 
 formation of the ground plan, with respect to its 
 external boundary, but in its internal swellings and 
 
119 
 
 sinkings, where all abruptness or angular appear- 
 ances are as much to be avoided, as in the form of 
 the outline that surrounds the whole. 
 
 The path- ways or walks are next considered, and 
 that peculiar curve recommended for their imita- 
 tion, which is so frequently found in common 
 roads, foot-paths, &c. and which, being casually 
 produced, appears to be the general curve of na- 
 ture. 
 
 The rest of the book is employed in minutely 
 describing the method of making sunk fences, and 
 other necessary divisions of the pleasure ground or 
 lawn from the adjacent field or park ; a part of the 
 art which is of most essential consequence, and 
 which is frequently very difficult both to design 
 and execute. 
 
 The dryness of this part of the subject led me 
 to enliven the book with a concluding Episode, and 
 also to throw into other places of it as much as I 
 could of poetical embellishment ; in one instance 
 perhaps improperly, because I have found it has 
 generally been blamed. It is the apostrophe 
 which I have made to the genius or muse of 
 painting, when I am about to teach the best colour 
 
120 
 
 for concealing upright fences. It has been said. 
 
 Why all this parade about daubing a rail 
 Now, though I believe I might defend myself by 
 the practice of my masters in didactic poetry, who 
 frequently by such apostrophes endeavour to be- 
 stow consequence on little matters, to which they 
 think it necessary to call the attention, yet I ra- 
 ther chuse to give the objection its full force, and 
 promise to soften the passage in the next edition ; 
 taking leave, however, here to assert in prose, that 
 it is highly necessary to observe the rule in ques- 
 tion ; because if such means be not taken for con- 
 cealment, fences of that kind create much de- 
 formity in the general scene. 
 
 III. The third book proceeds to add natural or- 
 nament to that ground plan which the second book 
 had ascertained, in its two capital branches, wood 
 and water. 
 
 The formation of the outline and position of the 
 latter might indeed have been treated in the former 
 book : but as water, though the greatest ornament 
 of any rural scene, is certainly but an ornament, 
 inasmuch as the scene may exist without it ; and 
 as there are many beautifully adorned places 
 where this additional grace cannot be produced, I 
 
121 
 
 thought proper to consider it only as an adjunct. 
 Somebody has said (perhaps rather quaintly, yet 
 certainly not without good meaning) that ** water 
 
 is the eye, and wood the eye-brow of nature 
 and if so, there is surely no impropriety in treating 
 the tw’o features together. Certain it is, that when 
 united, they contribute more than any thing else 
 to what may be called scenical expression, without 
 which the picturesque beauty we treat of loses 
 much of its value. 
 
 With respect to the judicious arrangement of 
 wood, considered separately, I treat it under two 
 distinct heads, that of planting it with a view of 
 concealing defects, and introducing beauty in their 
 place, and for the purpose of ornamenting the 
 opener lawns. On the former of these I am more 
 diffuse, because it is a subject which admits of 
 precise rules. On the latter, as it is the peculiar 
 province of taste, and depends chiefly on the eye 
 of the planter, who must necessarily vary his mode 
 of planting as peculiar situations vary, more could 
 not be said with propriety : for, where the only 
 thing needful is to avoid formality, and to treat 
 nature (as Mr. Pope excellently expresses it) 
 like a modest fair, 
 
 Not over dress, nor leave her wholly bare !’ f 
 
1S2 
 
 explicit rules rather tend to mislead tkan to direct. 
 
 I have, however, from ver. 209 to ver. 250, ven- 
 tured to prescribe a few material precepts, which 
 are incapable of being misapplied ; and if to these 
 be added, what I have said in the first book con- 
 cerning the false taste of planting distances, I am 
 in hopes I shall not be thought to have treated this 
 part of my subject superficially. 
 
 For I would wish my reader to consider that the 
 plan of this poem differs very materially in one re- 
 spect from that of the Georgies of Virgil ; and 
 when I speak merely of plan, I may hope, with- 
 out appearing arrogant, to bring them to a compa- 
 rison. His four books treat of four distinct sub- 
 jects ; tillage, planting, breeding of cattle, and 
 bees. He has no introductory book which treats 
 of the general art of agriculture : whereas this 
 poem, as appears from the analysis here given, 
 employs the first book entirely on that general sub- 
 ject, of which the three following are to be consi- 
 dered only as illustrations and amplifications: where, 
 therefore, that book had sufficiently explained any 
 topic, more could not be added in any succeeding 
 one without tautology. And this, I hope, will 
 sufficiently obviate the objection which has been 
 made to this part of the third book. 
 
123 
 
 As to the second general topic, water, as I have 
 heard no objections made to what I have there as- 
 serted, and believe every assertion consonant to 
 the general principles of the art, I shall here add 
 nothing. Yet in the little episode at the end of it, 
 I have been frequently questioned whom I meant 
 by Ligea , and it has been thought that I ought 
 not to have run away with one of VirgiPs Sea-* 
 Nymphs *, to transport her into an English inland 
 scene. There is some weight in this objection ; 
 and to shew that I think so, I will here discover 
 what I have hitherto kept as a sort of secret. The 
 lines where this nymph is mentioned, were writ- 
 ten in a very retired grove belonging to Mr. Fre- 
 deric Montagu, who has long honoured me with 
 his friendship, where a little clear trout-stream 
 (dignified, perhaps, too much by the name of a 
 river) gurgles very deliciously. The name of this 
 stream is the Lin, and the spring itself rises but a 
 little way from his plantations f. I seem to find 
 
 * Drymoque, Zanthoque, Ligeaque, Phyllodoceque. 
 
 Geor. iv. ver. 336. 
 
 f At Papplewick, in Nottinghamshire, on the edge of the 
 Forest of Sherwood. The village itself has not been with- 
 out poetical notice before, Ben Jonson having taken some 
 of his personce dramatis from it, in his unfinished pastoral 
 comedy, called The Sad Shepherd, 
 
m 
 
 myself asked here pretty abruptly, Why then did 
 you not call your nymph Line a ? I will own the 
 truth. I had resolved, when I first planned my 
 poem, to bring no instances from any individual 
 scene : for I thought the nature of its composition, 
 as it excluded particular satire, would not, with 
 more propriety, admit of particular panegyric ; 
 and therefore, by a slight alteration in the name, 
 and by some other as slight deviations from the 
 scenery, I cautiously masked the naiad in question. 
 
 I will here give the reader another instance of 
 similar caution. Finding, in the same book, occa- 
 sion to explode the too great fondness for exotic 
 plants, I thought that the most poetical way of 
 doing it was, to exhibit an instance somewhat in 
 the same manner in which Virgil introduces his 
 old Corycian gardener : but to prevent all possible 
 application, as I thought, I laid my scene on the 
 banks of the remote Swale, where I imagined the 
 taste for exotics had not yet reached, or at least had 
 not yet been carried to any excess ; yet I have 
 been since told, that the neighbourhood immedi- 
 ately pointed out a certain very worthy gentleman 
 as the undoubted object of my satire, whose im- 
 provements I had never seen, nor even heard, 
 that, from the inclemency of the climate, his 
 
125 
 
 plantations had ever suffered in the way that I 
 have described. I have, therefore, only to desire 
 that my readers, now possessed of one of my se- 
 crets, would substitute an N for a G where the 
 name Ligea occurs ; and that the respectable gen- 
 tleman, now acquainted with the other, would 
 acquit me of any premeditated ridicule on his 
 subject. 
 
 IV. Factitious or artificial ornaments, in contra- 
 distinction to natural ones last treated, form the ge- 
 neral subject of the Fourth Book, and conclude 
 the plan. By these is meant not only every aid 
 which the art borrows from architecture, but those 
 smaller pieces of separate scenery appropriated 
 either to ornament or use, which do not make a ne- 
 cessary part of the whole ; and which, if admit- 
 ted into it, would frequently occasion a littleness 
 ill suiting with that unity and simplicity which 
 should ever be principally attended to in an exten- 
 sive pleasure ground. 
 
 Though this subject was in itself as susceptible 
 of poetical embellishment as any that preceded it^ 
 and much more so than those contained in the se- 
 cond book ; yet I was apprehensive that descrip- 
 tive poetry, however varied, might pall when con- 
 
126 
 
 tinned through so long a poem : and therefore, by- 
 interweaving a tale with the general theme, I have 
 given the whole a narrative, and in some places, a 
 dramatic cast. The idea was new, and I found 
 the execution of it somewhat difficult. However, 
 if I have so far succeeded as to have conveyed, 
 through the medium of an interesting story, those 
 more important principles of taste which this part 
 of my subject required ; and if those rules only 
 are omitted which readily result from such as I 
 have descriptively given ; if the judicious place 
 and arrangement of those artificial forms, which 
 give the chief embellishment to a finished garden 
 scene, be distinctly noticed, I am not without 
 hope that this conclusion will be thought (as Sir 
 Henry Wotton said of Milton’s juvenile poems at 
 the end of a miscellany) to leave the reader in 
 some small degree con la bocca dolce. 
 
 With respect to the criticisms which may be 
 made on this last book, there is one so likely to 
 come from certain readers, that I am inclined to 
 anticipate it ; and taking for granted that it will 
 be said to breathe too much of the spirit of party, 
 to return the following ready answer : the word 
 party, when applied to those men, who, from pri- 
 vate and personal motives, compose either a ma- 
 
m 
 
 jority or minority in a house of parliament, or to 
 those who out of it, on similar principles, approve 
 or condemn the measures of any administration, is 
 certainly in its place : but in a matter of such 
 magnitude as the present American war, in which 
 the dearest interests of mankind are concerned, 
 the puny term has little or no meaning. If, how- 
 ever, it be applied to me on this occasion, I shall 
 take it with much complacency, conscious that no 
 sentiment appears in my poem w^hich does not 
 prove its author to be of the party of humanity. 
 
 The whole of the plan being now explained, I 
 might here finish, did not a general objection re- 
 main, which I have heard made to the species of 
 versification in which I chose to compose it. I 
 must, therefore, beg the reader’s patience while I 
 inform him why I preferred blank verse to rhyme 
 on this occasion. 
 
 When I first had the subject in contemplation, 
 I found it admitted of two very different modes of 
 composition : one was that of the regular didactic 
 poem, of which the Georgies of Virgil afford so 
 perfect an example ; the other that of the precep- 
 tive epistolary essay, the model of which Horace 
 has given in his Epistles ad Augustum ^ ad Pi- 
 
128 
 
 sones, I balanced sometime which of these I 
 should adopt, for both had their peculiar merit. 
 The former opened a more ample field for pic- 
 turesque description and poetical embellishment ; 
 the latter was more calculated to convey exact pre- 
 cept in concise phrase *. The one furnished bet- 
 ter means of illustrating my subject, and the other 
 of defining it ; the former admitted those orna- 
 ments only which resulted from lively imagery and 
 figurative diction, the, latter seemed rather to re- 
 quire the seasoning of wit and satire ; this, there- 
 fore, appeared best calculated to expose false taste, 
 and that to elucidate the true. But false taste, on 
 this subject, had been so inimitably ridiculed by 
 Mr. Pope, in his Epistle to Lord Burlington, that 
 it seemed to preclude all other authors (at least it 
 precluded me) from touching it after him ; and 
 therefore, as he had left much unsaid on that part 
 of the art on which it was my purpose principally 
 
 * See Mr. Pope’s account of his design in writing the 
 Essay on Man, in which the peculiar merit of that way, in 
 which he so greatly excelled, is most happily explained. 
 He chose, as he says, verse, and even rhyme, for two 
 reasons : verse, because precepts, so writteh, strike more 
 strongly, and are retained more easily: rhyme, because 
 it expresses arguments or instructions more concisely than 
 even prose itself.” 
 
129 
 
 to enlarge, I thought the didactic method not only 
 more open but more proper for my attempt. This 
 matter once determined, I did not hesita!te as to 
 my choice between blank verse and rhyme ; be- 
 cause it clearly appeared, that numbers of the 
 most varied kind were most proper to illustrate a 
 subject xvhose every charm springs from variety^ and 
 which painting nature as scorning control, should 
 employ a versification for that end as unfettered as 
 nature itself. Art, at the same time, in rural im- 
 provements, pervading the province of nature, un- 
 seen and unfelt, seemed to bear a striking analogy 
 to that species of verse, the harmony of which re- 
 sults from measured quantity and varied cadence, 
 without the too studied arrangement of final sylla- 
 bles, or regular return of consonant sounds. I 
 was, notwithstanding, well aware, that by choos- 
 ing to write in blank verse, I should not court po- 
 pularity, because I perceived it was growing much 
 out of vogue ; but this reason, as may be sup- 
 posed, did not weigh much with a writer, who 
 meant to combat fashion in the very theme he in- 
 tended to write upon ; and who was also con- 
 vinced that a mode of English versification, in 
 which so many good poems, with Paradise Lost at 
 their head, have been written, could either not 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 long continue unfashionable ; or, if it did, that fa- 
 shion had so completely destroyed taste, it would 
 not be worth any writer’s while, who aimed at 
 more than the reputation of the day, to endeavour 
 to amuse the public. 
 
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