To Mr. Gay, Congratulating Pope on Finishing His House and Gardens

Ah, friend! 'tis true — this truth you lovers know —
In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow,
In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes
Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens:
Joy lives not here, to happier seats it flies,
And only dwells where W ORTLEY casts her eyes.
What are the gay parterre, the chequer'd shade,
The morning bower, the ev'ning colonade,
But soft recesses of uneasy minds,
To sigh unheard in, to the passing winds?
So the struck deer in some sequester'd part
Lies down to die, the arrow at his heart,
There, stretch'd unseen in coverts hid from day,
Bleeds drop by drop, and pants his life away.
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