Address, from the Statues at Stowe, to Lord Cobham, on His Return to His Garden, An

From every muse , and every art , thy own,
Thy bowers , our Theatres, thy mind , our throne;
Hail to thy virtues , manumiz'd from state ,
Hail to thy leisure to be wisely great!
Fetter'd by duties , and to forms enslav'd,
How timely has thy life a remnant sav'd!
To taste that freedom , which thy sword maintain'd,
And lead, in letter'd ease , a life unpain'd!
So Scipio, Carthage fall'n , resign'd his plume ,
And smil'd, at the forgetfulness of Rome .

O, GREATLY bless'd! whose evening sweetliest shines ,
And in unclouded slowness, calm, declines !
Now, free reflection , with reverted eye,
Wan'd from hot noontide , and a troubled sky,
Divides life well — the largest part long known
Thy country's claim — the last, and best , thy own .

Go, like the master of the world , go shine;
Be Charles life, and Dioclesian's thine;
Form thy own power; dependent peace create,
And shade distinction from the storms of state:
With pray'rs , and praise , thy toil, (like heaven's ) be paid,
And guard the growing world , thy hands have made.
There, while detach'd, thy self-supported soul
Resumes dominion , and escapes controul;
Moves, with a grandeur, monarchs seek, in vain,
Above all forms , all dangers , and all pain :
The muse shall find thee, in thy bless'd retreat ,
And breathe this honest wish at Cobham 's feet:
Fresh , as thy lakes , may all thy pleasures flow;
And breezy , like thy groves , thy passions blow:
Wide as thy fancy , be thy spreading praise ,
And long , and lovely, as thy walks — thy days.
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