Classic Poem

On the Author's first arrival at the Leasowes, 1754.

" How shall I fix my wandering eye? Where find
" The source of this enchantment? Dwells it in
" The woods? or waves there not a magic wand
" O'er the translucent waters? Sure, unseen,
" Some favouring power directs the happy lines
" That sketch these beauties; swells the rising hills,
" And scoops the dales, to nature's finest forms,
" Vague, undetermin'd, infinite; untaught
" By line or compass, yet supremely fair. "
So Spake Philenor, as with raptur'd gaze
He travers'd Damon's farm: From distant plains
He sought his Friend's abode; nor had the fame
Of that new-form'd Arcadia reach'd his ear.
And thus the swain, as o'er each hill and dale,
Through lawn or thicket he pursu'd his way:
" What is it gilds the verdure of these meads
" With hues more bright than fancy paints the flowers
" Of Paradise? What Naiad's guiding hand
" Leads through the broider'd vale, these lucid rills,
" That, murmuring as they flow, bear melody
" Along their banks; and through the vocal shades,
" Improve the music of the woodland choir?
" What pensive Dryad rais'd yon solemn grove,
" Where minds contemplative, at close of day
" Retiring, muse o'er nature's various works.
" Her wonders venerate, or her sweets enjoy —
" What room for doubt? Some rural deity,
" Presiding, scatters o'er th' unequal lawns,
" In beauteous wildness, yon fair-spreading trees;
" And mingling woods and waters, hills and dales,
" And herds and bleating flocks, domestic fowl,
" And those that swim the lake, sees rising round
" More pleasing landscapes than in Tempe's vale
" Peneus water'd. Yes, some Sylvan god
" Spreads wide the varied prospect; waves the woods,
" Lifts the proud hills, and clears the shining lakes;
" While, from the congregated waters pour'd,
" The bursting torrent tumbles down the steep
" In foaming fury; fierce, irregular,
" Wild, interrupted, cross'd with rocks and roots,
" And interwoven trees: till, soon absorb'd,
" An opening cavern all its rage entombs.
" So vanish human glories! such the pomp
" Of swelling warriors, of ambitious kings,
" Who fret and strut their hour upon the stage
" Of busy life, and then are heard no more!
" Yes, 'tis enchantment all — And see the spells,
" The powerful incantations, magic verse,
" Inscrib'd on every tree, alcove, or urn — —
" Spells! — Incanlations! ah, my tuneful friend!
" Thine are the numbers! thine the wond'rous work!
" Yes, great magician! now I read thee right,
" And lightly weigh all sorcery, but thine.
" No Naiad's leading step conducts the rill;
" Nor Sylvan god presiding skirts the lawn
" In beauteous wildness, with fair spreading trees;
" Nor magic wand has circumscrib'd the scene,
" 'Tis thine own taste, thy genius that presides,
" Nor needs there other deity, nor needs
" More potent spells than they. " — No more the swain,
For lo, his Damon, o'er the tufted lawn
Advancing, leads him to the social dome.