Which soon her Damon kissed with weeping joy: "Dear youth, sole judge of what these verses mean,
By Fortune too much favoured, but by Love, Alas! not favoured less, be still as now
Discreet; the time may come you need not fly.” The Sun has lost his rage: his downward orb Shoots nothing now but animating warmth,
And vital lustre; that, with various ray,
Lights up the clouds, those beauteous robes of heaven, Incessant rolled into romantic shapes,
The dream of waking Fancy. Broad below, Covered with ripening fruits, and swelling fast Into the perfect year, the pregnant Earth
And all her tribes rejoice. Now the soft hour Of walking comes: for him who lonely loves To seek the distant hills, and there converse With Nature; there to harmonize his heart, And in pathetic song to breathe around The harmony to others. Social friends, Attuned to happy unison of soul;
To whose exalting eye a fairer world,
Of which the vulgar never had a glimpse, Displays its charms; whose minds are richly fraught With philosophic stores, superior light;
And in whose breast, enthusiastic, burns
Virtue, the sons of Interest deem romance;
Now called abroad, enjoy the falling day : Now to the verdant Portico of woods,
To Nature's vast Lyceum, forth they walk
By that kind School where no proud master reigns, The full free converse of the friendly heart, Improving and improved. Now from the world, Sacred to sweet retirement, lovers steal,
And pour their souls in transport, which the Sire Of love approving hears, and calls it good. Which way, Amanda, shall we bend our course? The choice perplexes. Wherefore should we choose? All is the same with thee. Say, shall we wind Along the stream? or walk the smiling mead? Or court the forest-glade? or wander wild Among the waving harvest? or ascend, While radiant Summer opens all its pride, Thy hill, delightful Shene*? Here let us sweep The boundless landscape: now the raptured eye, Exulting swift, to huge Augusta send,
Now to the sister-hills† that skirt her plain,
To lofty Harrow now, and now to where
* The old name of Richmond, signifying in Saxon shining, or splendor.
↑ Highgate and Hampstead.
Majestic Windsor lifts his princely brow. In lovely contrast to this glorious view, Calmly magnificent, then will we turn
To where the silver Thames first rural grows. There let the feasted eye unwearied stray: Luxurious, there, rove through the pendent woods That nodding hang o'er Harrington's retreat; And, stooping thence to Ham's embowering walks, Beneath whose shades, in spotless peace retired, With her the pleasing partner of his heart, The worthy Queensbury yet laments his Gay, And polished Cornbury woos the willing muse, Slow let us trace the matchless vale of Thames; Fair-winding up to where the muses haunt
In Twitnam's bowers, and for their Pope implore The healing god*; to royal Hampton's pile, To Clermont's terraced height, and Esher's groves, Where in the sweetest solitude, embraced
By the soft windings of the silent Mole, From courts and senates Pelham finds repose. Enchanting vale, beyond whate'er the muse Has of Achaia or Hesperia sung!
O vale of bliss! O softly-swelling hills,
On which the Power of cultivation lies,
And joys to see the wonders of his toil!
Heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around, Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires, And glittering towns, and gilded streams, till all The stretching landscape into smoke decays! Happy Britannia! where the queen of arts, Inspiring vigour, Liberty, abroad
Walks, unconfined, even to thy farthest cots, And scatters plenty with unsparing hand.
Rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime; Thy streams unfailing in the Summer's drought; Unmatched thy guardian-oaks; thy valleys float With golden waves; and on thy mountains flocks Bleat numberless; while, roving round their sides, Bellow the blackening herds in lusty droves. Beneath, thy meadows glow, and rise unquelled Against the mower's scythe. On every hand Thy villas shine. Thy country teems with wealth; And property assures it to the swain,
Pleased and unwearied in his guarded toil.
Full are thy cities with the sons of Art;
And trade and joy in every busy street, Mingling, are heard: even Drudgery himself, As at the car he sweats, or dusty hews
The palace-stone, looks gay. Thy crowded ports,
Where rising masts an endless prospect yield, With labour burn, and echo to the shouts Of hurried sailor, as he hearty waves His last adieu, and, loosening every sheet, Resigns the spreading vessel to the wind.
Bold, firm, and graceful, are thy generous youth, By hardship sinewed, and by danger fired, Scattering the nations where they go; and first Or on the listed plain, or stormy seas.
Mild are thy glories too, as o'er the plans Of thriving peace thy thoughtful sires preside: In genius and substantial learning high; For every virtue, every worth, renowned; Sincere, plain-hearted, hospitable, kind;
Yet, like the mustering thunder, when provoked, The dread of tyrants, and the sole resource
Of those that under grim Oppression groan. Thy sons of Glory many. Alfred thine,
In whom the splendor of heroic war, And more heroic peace when governed well, Combine; whose hallowed name the Virtues saint, And his own muses love; the best of kings.
With him thy Edwards and thy Henries shine,
Names dear to Fame; the first who deep impressed On haughty Gaul the terror of thy arms,
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