Shall be despised and overlooked no more, And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice; Ye groves (the statesman at his desk exclaims, Sick of a thousand disappointed aims,) My patrimonial reasure and my pride, Nor seldom, as propitious heaven might send, Nor guiltless of corupting other men, But versed in arts that, while they seem to stay A falling empire,hasten its decay. To the fair haven of my native home, His wish and mine both prompt me to retire. Ask not the boy, who when the breeze of morn Sits linking cherry stones, or plattng rush, To snare the mole, or with ill-fashoned hook The tongue, whose strains were cogent as commands, Shall own itself a stammerer in that cause, Its cooling vapour over the dewy meads, Downs, that almost escape the enquiring eye, |