Classic Poem

S W eet Nymphs, that dwell on Pindus ' verdant Side,
And o'er the Woods, without a Blush, preside,
Celestial Muses, deign your Bard a Lay,
As on the winding Banks of Yare I stray.
Yet if the Nymphs from Pindus scorn to bow,
Nor deign to listen to a Voice so low;
Their Pride I will repay, and in Despite,
While such my Theme, of all the Muses write.

Recall we then, for still 'twill please, to mind
The Morn we left dull Norwich Smoke behind,
When, as the lofty Spire just sunk from View,
To a fair verdant water'd Vale we drew;
Where 'midst fair Liberty's all-joyous Plains
Pop'ry still seems to hug her galling Chains.
The Dragon in Hesperian Gardens old
Thus slumbring lay, and tasted not the Gold;
Thus, 'midst th' eternal Spring Judaea keeps,
The lazy Poison of Aspbaltus sleeps.

Bend then, my Muse, thy flight to Weston 's Plains,
(No Verse can flow where Papal Slav'ry reigns)
Weston! whose Groves not envy Pindus ' Shade,
Nor blest with Ridley , want Apollo 's Aid.
Here Virtue reigns, and o'er the fruitful Land
Religion walks, with Freedom Hand in Hand;
His little Flock the Pious Priest informs,
And ev'ry Breast with Heav'n-born Doctrine warms,
Soft flows his Stream of Eloquence along,
And Truths Divine come mended from his Tongue.
Here the known Bounty of the Place we blest,
And to our Number join'd the Chearful Priest.
Thro' ancient Elmham next our Way we take,
And gravely nodding wise Reflections make;
How strongest Things destructive Time o'erturns,
And the waste Town its ravish'd Mitre mourns;
Mitre! repeats the Priest with simp'ring Leer,
'Twill fit at Norwich full as well as here.

But now, my Muse, in Blushes hide thy Face,
Nor deign the next vile Town in Verse a Place;
Unless thouc anst indite in Blackmore 's Strain,
And say, we call'd full hungry at the Swan,
But found not Hay for Horse, nor Meat for Man.
Dire Hunger! that with Meagre Visage stalks,
And never fails to cross the Poet's Walks,
But three short Miles soon brought us bounteous Aid,
And Milebam 's Fulness Brisley 's Want o'er paid,
See! the gay Unicorn the Wood adorn,
Fair sign of Plenty with his Iv'ry Horn!
Here Ceres spread her Fruits with lavish Hand,
And Baccbus laughing waited our Command.

Hence pleas'd and satisfied we take our Road,
And sometimes laugh and talk, but oftner nod.
Yet this soft Indolence not long we kept,
But wak'd to see where others faster slept;
Where Coke 's remains beneath the Marble rot,
His Cases and Distinctions all forgot;
His Body honour'd and to Fame consign'd,
For Virtues flowing from th' immortal Mind.
What wou'd avail this sumptuous Mass of Stone,
Were he not from his Works for ever known?
Let the Survivors of such great Men's Dust,
Ne'er think to add to Virtue by a Bust;
If false, Posterity will find the Lie,
If true, without it, it will never die,
But thro' succeeding Ages shine the same,
Or from some Leicester catch a brighter Flame.

But farewell Death, and Tombs, and mould'ring Urns,
Our Eye with Joy on neighb'ring Raynham turns;
Where Pleasures undecaying seem to dwell,
Such as the Happy in Elysium feel,
Where Heroes, Statesmen, and the virtuous Croud,
Receive the great Reward of being Good.
Such Pleasures ev'n on Earth had Heav'n ordain'd,
For him who once our tott'ring State sustain'd;
Who join'd the glorious Freedom-loving Crew,
Fixt to great Caesar what was Caesar 's Due,
And then, Dictator-like, to Fields withdrew.
Fair ran the Current of his Age, serene
As the pure Lake that bounds the various Scene.
Here whate'er Nature beauteous boasts we find,
Charming when sep'rate, but more charming join'd,
Pleasures, tho' chang'd, we meet where'er we rove,
On Hill, in Dale, on Plain, in shady Grove;
Here swell the Hillocks crown'd with golden Grain,
There, at their Feet, fair flows the liquid Plain,
O'er those the Larks extend their labour'd Note,
On this the Swans in snowy Grandeur float.

To Houghton then we take our pleasing Way,
Thrice happy Bound'ry of a well-spent Day;
Here chearful Plenty met the wearied Guest,
And splendid Welcome doubly crown'd our Rest.

Thou then, Apollo , aid the Poet's lay,
Thy Beams gave Lustre to the following Day;
When in one House more Beauties join'd we found,
Than e'er thou seest in all thy glorious Round;
Where Walpole plac'd with curious happy Cost,
Whate'er Magnificence or Taste can boast,
Where, in what Building noblest has, we find
Preserv'd, what Painting liveliest e'er designed.
See! Sculpture too her Beauties here disclose,
Such as old Phidias taught and Rysbrack knows.
Laocoon here in Pain still seems to breath,
While round his Limbs the pois'nous Serpents wreath,
Life strugling seems thro ev'ry Limb to pass,
And dying Torments animate the Brass.

The Pencil's Pow'r the proud Salon displays,
And struck with Wonder on the Paint we gaze.