Classic Poem

Ye frolic Nymphs who leave the desart hills,
Charm'd by the murmurs of descending rills
Where fair Landough enjoys her rural reign
And smiles the loveliest village on the plain;
Whose whisper'd voice so oft your poet leads
In fairy dreams thro' Thaw's elysian meads;
Be present, Nymphs: your beauteous groves I sing
Green in the breathing bloom of tender spring;
To you these groves, these pictur'd meads belong,
Thrice copious subject of my youthful song.
O say, ye swains so blest, ye favour'd few,
To bounteous Heaven what grateful praise is due,
That thus from envy free, from low-born strife,
From all the cares of fame-pursuing life,
Ours is the empire of these halcyon plains,
Where still to smile ambrofial Flora deigns,
And olive-scepter'd Peace, and joyful Plenty reigns!
This too the haunt of many a virgin Muse,
Tho' all too coy they still my vows refuse,
And here perchance some happier bard shall rise
Crown'd with their fairest wreath, their amplest prize,
Who oft beneath yon elm at evening laid
Shall call them round to celebrate the shade.
Vain were the toil to tempt the stormy main
For Arcady or Tempe's velvet plain,
Or aught the genial land of Asia yields,
Or blest Arabia's aromatic fields:
Lo here, rich west of Nature's dedal loom,
On their soft beds the flowers spontaneous bloom;
Here, as in Canaan's blissful land of yore,
Flows milk, and virgin honey's balmy store;
Here, useful lesson to unthinking man,
The painful bee pursues her frugal plan,
In cultur'd gardens builds her fragrant cell,
Or loves in haunts of ancient oaks to dwell,
And roves, with ceaseless buzz, from flower to flower,
And sips ambrosial dews from every woodbine bower.
The pasture's marge where deep Davona laves,
And imitates Meander's winding waves,
Pleas'd with the scene each Naiad's steps are slow,
And ev'n the flood forgets awhile to flow:
Along those broider'd banks full oft I rove
Beneath the glooms of yon umbrageous grove,
While muse-taught raptures animate my heart
And pensive pleasures to my soul impart.
Nor lies Landough one long continued plain
Smooth as the surface of the Severn main,
Nor one vast mount, like Snowdon steep and high,
That boldly bids defiance to the sky;
But here with ever-new delight we see
The endless charms of rich variety:
At times ascend yon shrubby hill to view
Our prospect's distant bound of mountains blue;
Thence, when the shades grow short and noonbeams glow,
Seck the cool shelter of the vales below;
Vales, where so oft, as eve's late phantoms flee,
The sylvan Nymphs I've seen, or seem'd to see:
" Stay, Nymphs " — but, ah! each transient trace is gone,
They fly, they leave me in the glades alone,
Fleet as the winds that shake their leafy woods,
Or the swift currents of their native floods.
Nor seldom, wrapt in fancy's fairest theme,
I trace the marge of clear Calviga's stream,
While nodding groves their dews nocturnal shed,
And brood with silent horror o'er my head:
While, piercing thro' the trees their lucid way,
On the pure stream the pale-eyed Moonbeams play,
And philomel, from Crable's towering height,
Charms with her plaints the sacred noon of night.
Lo these the lawns, along whose gladsome green,
Where taught to toil our frequent steps are seen,
We blend with life's dull cares each harmless joy,
In rural games our vacant hours employ;
Early to brakes and furzy fields repair,
And chase with eager hounds the timorous hare;
Or from his den the felon Reynard force,
Defeat his wiles, arrest his onward course;
The false decoy and meshy net prepare,
And make the birds our captives in the snare;
Or with the baited hook's too tempting food
Allure the scaly offspring of the flood.
Tho' here inventive Jones, great son of fame,
Hath deign'd to mark no marble with his name,
Tho' here no cloud-envelop'd structure stand
That rose to heaven at Wren's sublime command;
Yet all around in glad surprise we view
What tasks the sons of industry pursue,
View the neat charms of every pleasing part
That boast a grace beyond the reach of art:
Witness ye tufted groves, umbrageous bowers,
Irriguous meads, and banks of fragrant flowers,
Ye rich enclosures, and luxuriant plains,
And cots, the palaces of peaceful swains.
On these sweet scenes might Genius ever gaze,
And lose in rapture all the power of praise,
Might mark the landscape with amaze, and then
Drop from his hand the pencil and the pen.
On yon proud eminence our Castle stands,
And towers superior o'er the subject lands,
Here sees the lawns, and there the lofty wood
That frowns from high at Thaw's meandring flood:
Hence vales, and plains, and villages we view,
The widening prospect hills on hills renew:
Here Art, in Nature's dress, delights to please
With all her charms of elegance and ease;
The walls, the groves, the gardens, all declare
Chaste beauty, void of pomp's superfluous glare,
Where Skill accomplish'd with a master's hand
What Taste directed, and what Genius plann'd.
Let nervous Denham's magic numbers still
Rehearse the praises of his Cooper's Hill,
Let muse-led Pope his Windsor Forest sing
In all the pride of autumn and of spring:
Immortal bards, I envy not your strains
While my young Muse can range her native plains:
Tho' hopeless to increase their due renown,
And ev'n unanxious to exalt her own;
Yet did my verse like stronger Denham's glow,
Or smoother Pope's harmonious numbers flow;
Then should no other daring Muse invade
The honours of this song-deserving shade,
Then should no sylvan seat more brightly shine,
No fabled grove be dearer to the Nine;
Thy stream, Landough, in song should ever flow,
And thy own laurels bind thy bard's immortal brow.