THY forest, Windsor! and thy green retreats, | |
| At once the Monarch’s and the Muse’s seats, | |
| Invite my lays. Be present, Sylvan Maids! | |
| Unlock your springs, and open all your shades. | |
| Granville commands: your aid, O Muses, bring! | 5 |
| What muse for Granville can refuse to sing? | |
| The groves of Eden, vanish’d now so long, | |
| Live in description, and look green in song: | |
| These, were my breast inspired with equal flame, | |
| Like them in Beauty, should be like in Fame. | 10 |
| Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain, | |
| Here earth and water seem to strive again; | |
| Not chaos-like together crush’d and bruis’d, | |
| But, as the world, harmoniously confused: | |
| Where order in variety we see, | 15 |
| And where, tho’ all things differ, all agree. | |
| Here waving groves a chequer’d scene display, | |
| And part admit, and part exclude the day; | |
| As some coy nymph her lover’s warm address | |
| Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress. | 20 |
| There, interspers’d in lawns and opening glades, | |
| Thin trees arise that shun each other’s shades. | |
| Here in full light the russet plains extend: | |
| There wrapt in clouds the bluish hills ascend. | |
| Ev’n the wild heath displays her purple dyes, | 25 |
| And ’midst the desert fruitful fields arise, | |
| That crown’d with tufted trees and springing corn, | |
| Like verdant isles, the sable waste adorn. | |
| Let India boast her plants, nor envy we | |
| The weeping amber or the balmy tree, | 30 |
| While by our oaks the precious loads are borne, | |
| And realms commanded which those trees adorn. | |
| Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight, | |
| Tho’ Gods assembled grace his tow’ring height, | |
| Than what more humble mountains offer here, | 35 |
| Where, in their blessings, all those Gods appear. | |
| See Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona crown’d, | |
| Here blushing Flora paints th’ enamell’d ground, | |
| Here Ceres’ gifts in waving prospect stand, | |
| And nodding tempt the joyful reaper’s hand; | 40 |
| Rich Industry sits smiling on the plains, | |
| And peace and plenty tell, a Stuart reigns. | |
| Not thus the land appear’d in ages past, | |
| A dreary desert, and a gloomy waste, | |
| To savage beasts and savage laws a prey, | 45 |
| And Kings more furious and severe than they; | |
| Who claim’d the skies, dispeopled air and floods, | |
| The lonely lords of empty wilds and woods: | |
| Cities laid waste, they storm’d the dens and caves | |
| (For wiser brutes were backward to be slaves); | 50 |
| What could be free, when lawless beasts obey’d, | |
| And ev’n the elements a Tyrant sway’d? | |
| In vain kind seasons swell’d the teeming grain, | |
| Soft showers distill’d, and suns grew warm in vain: | |
| The swain with tears his frustrate labour yields, | 55 |
| And famish’d dies amidst his ripen’d fields. | |
| What wonder then, a beast or subject slain | |
| Were equal crimes in a despotic reign? | |
| Both doom’d alike, for sportive tyrants bled, | |
| But while the subject starv’d, the beast was fed. | 60 |
| Proud Nimrod first the bloody chase began, | |
| A mighty hunter, and his prey was man: | |
| Our haughty Norman boasts that barb’rous name, | |
| And make his trembling slaves the royal game. | |
| The fields are ravish’d from th’ industrious swains, | 65 |
| From men their cities, and from Gods their fanes; | |
| The levell’d towns with weeds lie cover’d o’er; | |
| The hollow winds thro’ naked temples roar; | |
| Round broken columns clasping ivy twin’d; | |
| O’er heaps of ruin stalk’d the stately hind; | 70 |
| The fox obscene to gaping tombs retires, | |
| And savage howlings fill the sacred quires. | |
| Aw’d by his nobles, by his commons curst, | |
| Th’ Oppressor ruled tyrannic where he durst, | |
| Stretch’d o’er the poor and church his iron rod, | 75 |
| And serv’d alike his vassals and his God. | |
| Whom ev’n the Saxon spar’d, and bloody Dane, | |
| The wanton victims of his sport remain. | |
| But see, the man who spacious regions gave | |
| A waste for beasts, himself denied a grave! | 80 |
| Stretch’d on the lawn his second hope survey, | |
| At once the chaser, and at once the prey! | |
| Lo Rufus, tugging at the deadly dart, | |
| Bleeds in the forest like a wounded hart! | |
| Succeeding monarchs heard the subjects’ cries, | 85 |
| Nor saw displeas’d the peaceful cottage rise: | |
| Then gath’ring flocks on unknown mountains fed, | |
| O’er sandy wilds were yellow harvests spread, | |
| The forest wonder’d at th’ unusual grain, | |
| And secret transports touch’d the conscious swain. | 90 |
| Fair Liberty, Britannia’s Goddess, rears | |
| Her cheerful head, and leads the golden years. | |
| Ye vig’rous Swains! while youth ferments your blood, | |
| And purer spirits swell the sprightly flood, | |
| Now range the hills, the gameful woods beset, | 95 |
| Wind the shrill horn, or spread the waving net. | |
| When milder Autumn Summer’s heat succeeds, | |
| And in the new-shorn field the partridge feeds, | |
| Before his lord the ready spaniel bounds, | |
| Panting with hope, he tries the furrow’d grounds; | 100 |
| But when the tainted gales the game betray, | |
| Couch’d close he lies, and meditates the prey; | |
| Secure they trust th’ unfaithful field beset, | |
| Till hov’ring o’er them sweeps the swelling net. | |
| Thus (if small things we may with great compare) | 105 |
| When Albion sends her eager sons to war, | |
| Some thoughtless town, with ease and plenty blest, | |
| Near, and more near, the closing lines invest; | |
| Sudden they seize th’ amaz’d, defenceless prize, | |
| And high in air Britannia’s standard flies. | 110 |
| See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, | |
| And mounts exulting on triumphant wings: | |
| Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound, | |
| Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground. | |
| Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes, | 115 |
| His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes, | |
| The vivid green his shining plumes un-fold, | |
| His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold? | |
| Nor yet, when moist Arcturus clouds the sky, | |
| The woods and fields their pleasing toils deny. | 120 |
| To plains with well-breathed beagles we repair, | |
| And trace the mazes of the circling hare | |
| (Beasts, urged by us, their fellow beasts pursue, | |
| And learn of man each other to undo). | |
| With slaught’ring guns th’ unwearied fowler roves, | 125 |
| When frosts have whiten’d all the naked groves, | |
| Where doves in flocks the leafless trees o’er-shade, | |
| And lonely woodcocks haunt the wat’ry glade. | |
| He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye; | |
| Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky: | 130 |
| Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, | |
| The clam’rous lapwings feel the leaden death; | |
| Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare, | |
| They fall, and leave their little lives in air. | |
| In genial Spring, beneath the quiv’ring shade, | 135 |
| Where cooling vapours breathe along the mead, | |
| The patient fisher takes his silent stand, | |
| Intent, his angle trembling in his hand: | |
| With looks unmov’d, he hopes the scaly breed, | |
| And eyes the dancing cork and bending reed. | 140 |
| Our plenteous streams a various race supply, | |
| The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye, | |
| The silver eel, in shining volumes roll’d, | |
| The yellow carp, in scales bedropp’d with gold, | |
| Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains, | 145 |
| And pikes, the tyrants of the wat’ry plains. | |
| Now Cancer glows with Phœbus’ fiery car: | |
| The youth rush eager to the sylvan war, | |
| Swarm o’er the lawns, the forest walks surround, | |
| Rouse the fleet hart, and cheer the opening hound. | 150 |
| Th’ impatient courser pants in every vein, | |
| And, pawing, seems to beat the distant plain: | |
| Hills, vales, and floods appear already cross’d, | |
| And ere he starts, a thousand steps are lost. | |
| See the bold youth strain up the threat’ning steep, | 155 |
| Rush thro’ the thickets, down the valleys sweep, | |
| Hang o’er their coursers’ heads with eager speed, | |
| And earth rolls back beneath the flying steed. | |
| Let old Arcadia boast her ample plain, | |
| Th’ immortal huntress, and her virgin train; | 160 |
| Nor envy, Windsor! since thy shades have seen | |
| As bright a Goddess, and as chaste a Queen; | |
| Whose care, like hers, protects the sylvan reign, | |
| The earth’s fair light, and Empress of the Main. | |
| Here too, ’t is sung, of old Diana stray’d, | 165 |
| And Cynthus’ top forsook for Windsor shade; | |
| Here was she seen o’er airy wastes to rove, | |
| Seek the clear spring, or haunt the pathless grove; | |
| Here arm’d with silver bows, in early dawn, | |
| Her buskin’d virgins traced the dewy lawn. | 170 |
| Above the rest a rural nymph was famed, | |
| Thy offspring, Thames! the fair Lodona named | |
| (Lodona’s fate, in long oblivion cast, | |
| The Muse shall sing, and what she sings shall last). | |
| Scarce could the Goddess from her nymph be known | 175 |
| But by the crescent and the golden zone. | |
| She scorn’d the praise of beauty, and the care; | |
| A belt her waist, a fillet binds her hair; | |
| A painted quiver on her shoulder sounds, | |
| And with her dart the flying deer she wounds. | 180 |
| It chanced as, eager of the chase, the maid | |
| Beyond the forest’s verdant limits stray’d, | |
| Pan saw and lov’d, and, burning with desire, | |
| Pursued her flight; her flight increas’d his fire. | |
| Not half so swift the trembling doves can fly, | 185 |
| When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky; | |
| Not half so swiftly the fierce eagle moves, | |
| When thro’ the clouds he drives the trembling doves: | |
| As from the God she flew with furious pace, | |
| Or as the God, more furious, urged the chase. | 190 |
| Now fainting, sinking, pale, the Nymph appears; | |
| Now close behind, his sounding steps she hears; | |
| And now his shadow reach’d her as she run, | |
| His shadow lengthen’d by the setting sun; | |
| And now his shorter breath, with sultry air, | 195 |
| Pants on her neck, and fans her parting hair. | |
| In vain on Father Thames she calls for aid, | |
| Nor could Diana help her injur’d maid. | |
| Faint, breathless, thus she pray’d, nor pray’d in vain: | |
| ‘Ah, Cynthia! ah—tho’ banish’d from thy train, | 200 |
| Let me, O let me, to the shades repair, | |
| My native shades—there weep, and murmur there!’ | |
| She said, and melting as in tears she lay, | |
| In a soft silver stream dissolv’d away. | |
| The silver stream her virgin coldness keeps, | 205 |
| For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps; | |
| Still bears the name the hapless virgin bore, | |
| And bathes the forest where she ranged before. | |
| In her chaste current oft the Goddess laves, | |
| And with celestial tears augments the waves. | 210 |
| Oft in her glass the musing shepherd spies | |
| The headlong mountains and the downward skies; | |
| The wat’ry landscape of the pendent woods, | |
| And absent trees that tremble in the floods: | |
| In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen, | 215 |
| And floating forests paint the waves with green; | |
| Thro’ the fair scene roll slow the ling’ring streams, | |
| Then foaming pour along, and rush into the Thames. | |
| Thou, too, great Father of the British Floods! | |
| With joyful pride survey’st our lofty woods; | 220 |
| Where tow’ring oaks their growing honours rear, | |
| And future navies on thy shores appear. | |
| Not Neptune’s self from all his streams receives | |
| A wealthier tribute than to thine he gives. | |
| No seas so rich, so gay no banks appear, | 225 |
| No lake so gentle, and no spring so clear. | |
| Nor Po so swells the fabling poet’s lays, | |
| While led along the skies his current strays, | |
| As thine, which visits Windsor’s famed abodes, | |
| To grace the mansion of our earthly Gods: | 230 |
| Nor all his stars above a lustre show, | |
| Like the bright beauties on thy banks below; | |
| Where Jove, subdued by mortal passion still, | |
| Might change Olympus for a nobler hill. | |
| Happy the man whom this bright court approves, | 235 |
| His Sov’reign favours, and his Country loves: | |
| Happy next him, who to these shades retires, | |
| Whom Nature charms, and whom the Muse inspires: | |
| Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please, | |
| Successive study, exercise, and ease. | 240 |
| He gathers health from herbs the forest yields, | |
| And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields: | |
| With chemic art exalts the mineral powers, | |
| And draws the aromatic souls of flowers: | |
| Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high; | 245 |
| O’er figured worlds now travels with his eye; | |
| Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store, | |
| Consults the dead, and lives past ages o’er: | |
| Or wand’ring thoughtful in the silent wood, | |
| Attends the duties of the wise and good, | 250 |
| T’ observe a mean, be to himself a friend, | |
| To follow Nature, and regard his end; | |
| Or looks on Heav’n with more than mortal eyes, | |
| Bids his free soul expatiate in the skies, | |
| Amid her kindred stars familiar roam, | 255 |
| Survey the region, and confess her home! | |
| Such was the life great Scipio once admired:— | |
| Thus Atticus, and Trumbull thus retired. | |
| Ye sacred Nine! that all my soul possess, | |
| Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless, | 260 |
| Bear me, O bear me to sequester’d scenes, | |
| The bowery mazes, and surrounding greens; | |
| To Thames’s banks, which fragrant breezes fill, | |
| Or where ye Muses sport on Cooper’s hill. | |
| (On Cooper’s hill eternal wreaths shall grow, | 265 |
| While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall flow.) | |
| I seem thro’ consecrated walks to rove; | |
| I hear soft music die along the grove: | |
| Led by the sound, I roam from shade to shade, | |
| By godlike Poets venerable made: | 270 |
| Here his first lays majestic Denham sung; | |
| There the last numbers flow’d from Cowley’s tongue. | |
| Oh early lost! what tears the river shed, | |
| When the sad pomp along his banks was led! | |
| His drooping swans on every note expire, | 275 |
| And on his willows hung each Muse’s lyre. | |
| Since Fate relentless stopp’d their heav’nly voice, | |
| No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice; | |
| Who now shall charm the shades where Cowley strung | |
| His living harp, and lofty Denham sung? | 280 |
| But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings! | |
| Are these revived, or is it Granville sings? | |
| ’T is yours, my Lord, to bless our soft retreats, | |
| And call the Muses to their ancient seats; | |
| To paint anew the flowery sylvan scenes, | 285 |
| To crown the forests with immortal greens, | |
| Make Windsor hills in lofty numbers rise, | |
| And lift her turrets nearer to the skies; | |
| To sing those honours you deserve to wear, | |
| And add new lustre to her silver star! | 290 |
| Here noble Surrey felt the sacred rage, | |
| Surrey, the Granville of a former age: | |
| Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance, | |
| Bold in the lists, and graceful in the dance: | |
| In the same shades the Cupids tuned his lyre, | 295 |
| To the same notes of love and soft desire; | |
| Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow, | |
| Then fill’d the groves, as heav’nly Mira now. | |
| Oh wouldst thou sing what heroes Windsor bore, | |
| What Kings first breathed upon her winding shore, | 300 |
| Or raise old warriors, whose ador’d remains | |
| In weeping vaults her hallow’d earth contains! | |
| With Edward’s acts adorn the shining page, | |
| Stretch his long triumphs down thro’ every age, | |
| Draw Monarchs chain’d, and Cressi’s glorious field, | 305 |
| The lilies blazing on the regal shield: | |
| Then, from her roofs when Verrio’s colours fall, | |
| And leave inanimate the naked wall, | |
| Still in thy song should vanquish’d France appear, | |
| And bleed for ever under Britain’s spear. | 310 |
| Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn, | |
| And palms eternal flourish round his urn. | |
| Here o’er the martyr-king the marble weeps, | |
| And, fast beside him, once-fear’d Edward sleeps, | |
| Whom not th’ extended Albion could contain, | 315 |
| From old Bellerium to the northern main; | |
| The grave unites; where ev’n the great find rest, | |
| And blended lie th’ oppressor and th’ opprest! | |
| Make sacred Charles’s tomb for ever known | |
| (Obscure the place, and uninscribed the stone); | 320 |
| Oh fact accurs’d! what tears has Albion shed, | |
| Heav’ns! what new wounds! and how her old have bled! | |
| She saw her sons with purple death expire, | |
| Her sacred domes involv’d in rolling fire, | |
| A dreadful series of intestine wars, | 325 |
| Inglorious triumphs, and dishonest scars. | |
| At length great ANNA said, ‘Let discord cease!’ | |
| She said! the world obey’d, and all was peace! | |
| In that blest moment from his oozy bed | |
| Old father Thames advanced his rev’rend head; | 330 |
| His tresses dropp’d with dews, and o’er the stream | |
| His shining horns diffused a golden gleam: | |
| Graved on his urn appear’d the moon, that guides | |
| His swelling waters and alternate tides; | |
| The figured streams in waves of silver roll’d, | 335 |
| And on her banks Augusta rose in gold. | |
| Around his throne the sea-born brothers stood, | |
| Who swell with tributary urns his flood: | |
| First the famed authors of his ancient name; | |
| The winding Isis, and the fruitful Thame; | 340 |
| The Kennet swift, for silver eels renown’d; | |
| The Lodden slow, with verdant alders crown’d; | |
| Cole, whose dark streams his flowery islands lave; | |
| And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave: | |
| The blue, transparent Vandalis appears; | 345 |
| The gulfy Lee his sedgy tresses rears; | |
| And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood; | |
| And silent Darent, stain’d with Danish blood. | |
| High in the midst, upon his urn reclin’d | |
| (His sea-green mantle waving with the wind), | 350 |
| The God appear’d: he turn’d his azure eyes | |
| Where Windsor-domes and pompous turrets rise; | |
| Then bow’d and spoke; the winds forget to roar, | |
| And the hush’d waves glide softly to the shore. | |
| ‘Hail, sacred Peace! hail, long-expected days, | 355 |
| That Thames’s glory to the stars shall raise! | |
| Tho’ Tiber’s streams immortal Rome behold, | |
| Tho’ foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold, | |
| From Heav’n itself tho’ sev’nfold Nilus flows, | |
| And harvests on a hundred realms bestows; | 360 |
| These now no more shall be the Muse’s themes, | |
| Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams. | |
| Let Volga’s banks with iron squadrons shine, | |
| And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine; | |
| Let barb’rous Ganges arm a servile train, | 365 |
| Be mine the blessings of a peaceful reign. | |
| No more my sons shall dye with British blood | |
| Red Iber’s sands, or Ister’s foaming flood: | |
| Safe on my shore each unmolested swain | |
| Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain; | 370 |
| The shady empire shall retain no trace | |
| Of war or blood, but in the sylvan chase; | |
| The trumpet sleep, while cheerful horns are blown, | |
| And arms employ’d on birds and beasts alone. | |
| Behold! th’ ascending villas on my side | 375 |
| Project long shadows o’er the crystal tide; | |
| Behold! Augusta’s glitt’ring spires increase, | |
| And temples rise, the beauteous works of Peace. | |
| I see, I see, where two fair cities bend | |
| Their ample bow, a new Whitehall ascend! | 380 |
| There mighty nations shall inquire their doom, | |
| The world’s great oracle in times to come; | |
| There Kings shall sue, and suppliant states be seen | |
| Once more to bend before a British Queen. | |
| ‘Thy trees, fair Windsor! now shall leave their woods, | 385 |
| And half thy forests rush into my floods, | |
| Bear Britain’s thunder, and her cross display | |
| To the bright regions of the rising day; | |
| Tempt icy seas, where scarce the waters roll, | |
| Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole; | 390 |
| Or under southern skies exalt their sails, | |
| Led by new stars, and borne by spicy gales! | |
| For me the balm shall bleed, and amber flow, | |
| The coral redden, and the ruby glow, | |
| The pearly shell its lucid globe infold, | 395 |
| And Phœbus warm the ripening ore to gold. | |
| The time shall come, when, free as seas or wind, | |
| Unbounded Thames shall flow for all man-kind, | |
| Whole nations enter with each swelling tide, | |
| And seas but join the regions they divide; | 400 |
| Earth’s distant ends our glory shall behold, | |
| And the new world launch forth to seek the old. | |
| Then ships of uncouth form shall stem the tide, | |
| And feather’d people crowd my wealthy side; | |
| And naked youths and painted chiefs admire | 405 |
| Our speech, our colour, and our strange attire! | |
| O stretch thy reign, fair Peace! from shore to shore, | |
| Till conquest cease, and slavery be no more; | |
| Till the freed Indians in their native groves | |
| Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves; | 410 |
| Peru once more a race of kings behold, | |
| And other Mexicos be roof’d with gold. | |
| Exiled by thee from earth to deepest Hell, | |
| In brazen bonds shall barb’rous Discord dwell: | |
| Gigantic Pride, pale Terror, gloomy Care, | 415 |
| And mad Ambition shall attend her there: | |
| There purple Vengeance, bathed in gore, retires, | |
| Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires: | |
| There hated Envy her own snakes shall feel, | |
| And Persecution mourn her broken wheel: | 420 |
| There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain, | |
| And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain.’ | |
| Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallow’d lays | |
| Touch the fair fame of Albion’s golden days: | |
| The thoughts of Gods let Granville’s verse recite, | 425 |
| And bring the scenes of opening fate to light. | |
| My humble Muse, in unambitious strains, | |
| Paints the green forests and the flowery plains, | |
| Where Peace descending bids her olives spring, | |
| And scatters blessings from her dovelike wing. | 430 |
| Ev’n I more sweetly pass my careless days, | |
| Pleas’d in the silent shade with empty praise; | |
| Enough for me that to the list’ning swains | |
| First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains. | |
| |
