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We pierce the counterfeit delight,
Of native groves, and wonted streams,
Then hither oft, ye senators, retire,
With nature here high converse hold; For who like STAMFORD her delights admire,
Like STAMFORD shall with scorn behold
Shall see fair truth, immortal maid,
Honour, and moral beauty shine
Yes, here alone did highest heav'n ordain
The lasting magazine of charms,
For ever should remain !
Her impulse nothing may restrain-
'Midst all the city's artful trim,
Or shrubs fuliginously grim;
To trace the dun far distant grove,
The wood-lark mourns her absent love,
But how must faithless art prevail,
Forego a court's alluring pale,
Example for its giddy bands;
From these impartial heav'n demands To spread the flame itself inspires,
To sift opinion's mingled mass, Impress a nation's taste, and bid the sterling pass.
Happy, thrice happy they,
With mild effective beams!
To join their pleasing dreams!
They only that deserve, enjoy.
What tho' nor fabled dryad haunt their grove,
Nor naiad near their fountains rove,
A train of smiling virtues bright
Shall there the wise retreat allow, Shall twine triumphant palms to deck the wanderer's
And though by faithless friends alarm’d,
By SEYMOUR’s winning influence charm’d,
No longer shall their counsels jar.
"Tis hers to meditate the peace ;
Near Percy-lodge, with awe-struck mien,
The rebel seeks her lawful queen,
I see the rival pow'rs combine,
Nature exalt the mound where art shall build ; Art shape the gay alcove, while nature paints the field.
Begin, ye songsters of the grove !
-Peace to the strepent horn!
No sounds inelegant and rude
The lowly shepherd's votive strain,
Y beauteous nymphs, and jovial swains,
Who deck'd with youthful bloom,
Philander's cheerful dome :
Mark how the wintry clouds hang o'er
Yon frowning mountain's brow! Mark how the rude winds warp the stream,
And rock the leafless bough!
The painted meads and flow'ry lawns
Their wonted pride give o'er;
Their notes are heard no more,
Save where beneath the lonely shed,
Or desolated thorn,
And tunes his pipe forlorn :
Yet shall the sun's reviving ray
Recall the genial spring:
The feather'd flocks shall sing ;
But not to you shall e'er return
The pride of gaudy years: When pining Age, with icy hand,
His hoary mantle rears :
When once, alas ! his churlish blast