The Poetical Works of John Scott

From Whitby's rocks steep rising o'er the main,
From Eska's vales, or Ewecot's lonely plain,
Say, rove thy thoughts to Amwell's distant bow'rs,
To mark how pass thy Friend's sequester'd hours?

‘Perhaps, 'think'st thou, ‘he seeks his pleasing scenes
‘Of winding walks, smooth lawns, and shady greens:
‘Where China's willow hangs its foliage fair,
‘And Po's tall poplar waves its top in air,

260

‘And the dark maple spreads its umbrage wide,
‘And the white bench adorns the bason side;
‘At morn reclin'd, perhaps, he sits to view
‘The bank's neat slope, the water's silver hue.

‘Where, 'midst thick oaks, the subterraneous way
‘To the arch'd grot admits a feeble ray;
‘Where glossy pebbles pave the varied floors,
‘And rough flint-walls are deck'd with shells and ores,
‘And silvery pearls, spread o'er the roofs on high,
‘Glimmer like faint stars in a twilight sky;
‘From noon's fierce glare, perhaps, he pleas'd retires,
‘Indulging musings which the place inspires.

‘Now where the airy octagon ascends,
‘And wide the prospect o'er the vale extends,
‘'Midst evening's calm, intent perhaps he stands,
‘And looks o'er all that length of sun-gilt lands,
‘Of bright green pastures, stretch'd by rivers clear,
‘And willow groves, or osier islands near.’

261

Alas, my friend, how strangely men mistake,
Who guess what others most their pleasure make!
These garden scenes, which Fashion o'er our plains
Spreads round the villas of our wealthy swains,
Tho' Envy grudge, or Friendship wish to share,
They claim but little of their owners' care.

For me, my groves not oft my steps invite,
And far less oft they fail to offend my sight:
In vain the senna waves its glossy gold,
In vain the cistus' spotted flowers unfold,
In vain the acacia's snowy bloom depends,
In vain the sumach's scarlet spike ascends,
In vain the woodbine's spicy tufts disclose,
And green slopes redden with the shedding rose:
These neat-shorn hawthorns useless verdant bound,
This long straight walk, that pool's unmeaning round,
These short-curv'd paths that twist beneath the trees,
Disgust the eye, and make the whole displease.

262

‘No scene like this,’ I say, ‘did Nature raise,
‘Brown's fancy form, or Walpole's judgment praise;
‘No prototype for this did I survey
‘In Woollett's landscapes , or in Mason's lay.’

But might thy genius, Friend, an Eden frame,
Profuse of beauty, and secure from blame;
Where round the lawn might wind the varied way,
Now lost in gloom, and now with prospect gay;
Now screen'd with clumps of green, for wintry bow'rs;
Now edg'd with sunny banks, for summer flow'rs;
Now led by chrystal lakes with lilies drest,
Or where light temples court the step to rest—
Time's gradual change, or Tempest's sudden rage,
There with thy peace perpetual war would wage.

263

That tyrant oak, whose arms so far o'ergrow,
Shades some poor shrub that pines with drought below;
These rampant elms, those hazels branching wide,
Crowd the broad pine, the spiry larix hide.
That lilac brow, where May's unsparing hand
Bade one vast swell of purple bloom expand,
Soon past its prime, shews signs of quick decay,
The naked stem, and scanty-cover'd spray.
Fierce Boreas calls, and Ruin waits his call;
Thy fair catalpa's broken branches fall;
Thy soft magnolia mourns her blasted green,
And blighted laurel's yellowing leaves are seen.

But Discontent alone, thou'lt say, complains
For ill success, where none perfection gains:
True is the charge; but from that tyrant's sway
What art, what power, can e'er redeem our day?
To me, indeed, short ease he sometimes yields,
When my lone walk surrounds the rural fields;

264

There no past errors of my own upbraid,
No time, no wealth, expended unrepaid:
There Nature dwells, and throws profuse around
Each pastoral sight and every pastoral sound;
From Spring's green copse, that pours the cuckoo's strain,
And evening bleatings of the fleecy train,
To Autumn's yellow field, and clamorous horn
That wakes the slumbering harvesters at morn.
There Fancy too, with fond delighted eyes,
Sees o'er the scene ideal people rise;
There calm Contentment, in his cot reclin'd,
Hears the grey poplars whisper in the wind;

265

There Love's sweet song adown the echoing dale
To Beauty's ear conveys the tender tale;
And there Devotion lifts his brow to Heaven,
With grateful thanks for many a blessing given.

Thus oft thro' Maylan's shady lane I stray,
Trace Rushgreen's paths, or Postwood's winding way;
Thus oft to Eastfield's airy height I haste;
(All well-known spots thy feet have frequent trac'd!)
While Memory, as my sight around I cast,
Suggests the pleasing thought of moments past;
Or Hope, amid the future, forms again
The dream of bliss Experience broke in vain.

See Mr. Walpole's ingenious History of the Modern Taste in Gardening, at the end of the Fourth Volume of his Anecdotes of Painting.

The above-named excellent Artist, several years ago, drew and engraved a number of beautiful views in some of our most celebrated modern gardens.

There is a custom, frequent in many parts of England, of calling the harvest-men to and from work by the sound of a horn. This practice, as well as that of the Harvest-Shouting, seems much on the decline. The latter could boast its origin from high antiquity, as appears from that beautiful stroke of Eastern Poetry, Isaiah, chap. xvi: “I will water thee with my tears, O Heshbon and Elealeh; for the shouting for thy summer fruits, and for thy harvest, is fallen!”

University of Virginia Library

EPISTLE I. THE GARDEN.