Classic Poem

Let others with Parnassus swell their theme,
Drink inspiration from the Aonian stream:
Let them draw Phoebus down to patch a line,
Invoke, that hackney fry, the tuneful nine:
I that of Ludwell sing, to Ludwell run,
Herself my muse, her spring my Helicon.
The neighbouring park its friendly aid allows;
Perfumed with thyme, o'erspread with shady boughs;
Its leafy canopies new thoughts instil,
And Crooksberry supplies the cloven hill.
Pomona does Minerva's stores dispense,
And Flora sheds her balmy influence;
All things conspire to press my modest muse,
The morning herbs adorned with pearly dews,
The meadows interlaced with silver floods,
The frizzled thickets, and the taller woods.
The whispering zephyrs my more silent tongue
Correct, and Philomela chirps a song.
Is there a bird of all the blooming year,
That has not sung his early matins here?
That has not sipped the fairy matron's spring,
Or hovered o'er her cave with wishful wing?
An awful fabric built by nature's hand
Does raise our wonder, our respect command.
Three lucky trees to wilder art unknown
Seem on the front a growing triple crown.
At first the arched room is high and wide,
The naked walls with mossy hangings hid;
The ceiling sandy: as you forward press
The roof is still declining into less;
Despair to reach the end--a little arch
Narrow and low forbids your utmost search.
So to her lover the chaste, beauteous lass
Without a blush vouchsafes to show her face,
Her neck of ivory, her snowy breast,
These shown, she modestly conceals the rest.
A shallow brook, that restless underground
Struggled with earth, here a moist passage found.
Down through a stony vein the waters roll
O'erflowing the capacious iron bowl:
Oh! happy bowl, that gladness can infuse,
And yet was never stained with heady juice.
Here thirsty souls carouse with innocence,
Nor owe their pleasure to their loss of sense.
Here a smooth floor had many a figure shown,
Had virgin footsteps made impression,
That soft and swift Camilia-like advance,
While even movements seem to fly a dance.
No quilted couch, the sick man's daily bed,
No seats to lull asleep diseases made,
Are seen; but such as healthy persons please
Of wood or stone, such as the wearied ease.
O might I still enjoy this peaceful gloom!
The truest entrance to Elysium.
Who would to the Cumaean den repair?
A better Sibyl, wiser power is here.
Methinks I see him from his palace come,
And with his presence grace the baleful room:
Consider, Ludwell, what to him you owe,
Who does for you the noisy court forego;
Nay he a rich and gaudy silence leaves,
You share the honour, sweet Moor Park receives.
You with your wrinkles admiration move,
That with its beauty better merits love.
Here's careless Nature in her ancient dress,
There's she more modish, and consults the glass.
Here she's an old, but yet a pleasant dame;
There she'll a fair, not painted virgin seem.
Here the rich metal hath through no fire passed,
There, though refined, by no alloy debased.
Thus nature is preserved in every part,
Sometimes adorned, but ne'er debauched by art.
When scattered locks, that dangle on the brow,
Into more decent hairy circles grow,
After inquiry made, though no man love
The curling iron, all the comb approve.