Angry and fad and his laft cruft confumed.
So farewel envy of the peasant's nest.
If folitude make fcant the means of life,
Society for me! Thou feeming fweet,
Be ftill a pleafing object in my view,
My vifit ftill, but never mine abode.

Not diftant far, a length of colonnade
Invites us. Monument of ancient taste,
Now fcorn'd, but worthy of a better fate.
Our fathers knew the value of a screen
From fultry funs, and in their fhaded walks
And long-protracted bow'rs, enjoy'd at noon
The gloom and coolnefs of declining day.
We bear our shades about us; felf-depriv'd
Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread,
And range an Indian wafte without a tree.
Thanks to Benevolus-he fpares me yet


* John Courtney Throckmorton, Efq. of Wefton Underwood.


These chefnuts ranged in correfponding lines,
And though himself so polish'd, ftill reprieves
The obfolete prolixity of shade.

Defcending now (but cautious, left too faft)
A fudden fteep, upon a ruftic bridge
We pafs a gulph in which the willows dip
Their pendent boughs, ftooping as if to drink.
Hence ancle deep in mofs and flow'ry thyme
We mount again, and feel at ev'ry step
Our foot half funk in hillocks green and foft,
Rais'd by the mole, the miner of the foil.
He not unlike the great ones of mankind,
Disfigures earth, and plotting in the dark
Toils much to earn a monumental pile,
record the mifchiefs he has done.

The fummit gain'd, behold the proud alcove
That crowns it! yet not all its pride fecures
The grand retreat from injuries imprefs'd


By rural carvers, who with knives deface
The pannels, leaving an obscure rude name
In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss.
So ftrong the zeal t' immortalize himself
Beats in the breast of man, that ev'n a few
Few tranfient years won from th' abyss abhorr'd
Of blank oblivion, feem a glorious prize,
And even to a clown. Now roves the eye,
And posted on this speculative height
Exults in its command. The sheep-fold here
Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe.
At first, progreffive as a ftream, they seek
The middle field; but fcatter'd by degrees
Each to his choice, foon whiten all the land.
There, from the fun-burnt hay-field homeward creeps
The loaded wain, while lighten'd of its charge
The wain that meets it paffes fwiftly by,
The boorish driver leaning o'er his team
Vocif'rous, and impatient of delay.
Nor less attractive is the woodland scene


Diverfified with trees of ev'ry growth
Alike yet various. Here the grey fmooth trunks
Of ash, or lime, or beech, diftinctly shine,
Within the twilight of their distant shades;
There loft behind a rifing ground, the wood
Seems funk, and fhorten'd to its topmost boughs.
No tree in all the grove but has its charms,
Though each its hue peculiar; paler fome,
And of a wannish grey; the willow fuch
And poplar, that with filver lines his leaf,
And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm.
Of deeper green the elm; and deeper ftill,
Lord of the woods, the long-furviving oak.
1 Some gloffy-leav'd and shining in the fun,
The maple, and the beech of oily nuts
Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve
Diffufing odors: nor unnoted pass

The fycamore, capricious in attire,
Now green, now tawny, and ere autumn yet
Have changed the woods, in fcarlet honors bright.



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O'er thefe, but far beyond, (a spacious map
Of hill and valley interpos'd between)
The Oufe, dividing the well-water'd land,
Now glitters in the fun, and now retires,
As bafhful, yet impatient to be seen.

Hence the declivity is sharp and short,
And fuch the re-afcent; between them weeps
A little Naiad her impov'rifh'd urn

All fummer long, which winter fills again.
The folded gates would bar my progress now,
But that the Lord of this inclosed demesne,
Communicative of the good he owns,
Admits me to a fhare: the guiltless eye

Commits no wrong, nor waftes what it enjoys.
Refreshing change! where now the blazing fun?
By short transition we have loft his glare
And stepp'd at once into a cooler clime.
Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn

See the foregoing note.


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