VERSES
WRITTEN IN DR DARWIN'S BOTANIC GARDEN
Near Lichfield, July, 1778.
O come not here, ye proud, whose breasts enfold
Th' insatiate wish of glory, or of gold!
O come not here, whose branded foreheads wear
The eternal frown of envy or of care!
For you no Dryad decks her fragrant bowers,
For you her sparkling urn no Naiad pours;
Unmask'd by you, light Graces skim the green,
And hovering Cupids aim their shafts unseen.
But thou, whose mind the well-attemper'd ray
Of taste and virtue lights with purer day;
Whose finer sense each soft vibration owns,
Mute and unfeeling to discordant tones;
Like the fair flower, that spreads its lucid form
To meet the sun, but shuts it to the storm;
For thee my borders name the glowing wreath,
My fountains murmur and my zephyrs breathe;
To charm thine eye, amid the crystal tide,
With sinuous track, my silvery nations glide;
My choral birds their vivid plumes unfold,
And insect armies wave their wings of gold.
And if with thee some gentle maid should stray,
Disastrous Love companion of her way,
O! lead her timid step to yonder glade,
Whose arching rock incumbent alders shade!
These, as meek evening wakes the temperate breeze,
And moon-beams glimmer thro' the trembling trees,
The rills that gurgle round shall sooth her ear,
The weeping rock shall number tear for tear;
And as sad Philomel, alike forlorn,
Sings to the night, reclining on a thorn,
While at mute intervals each falling note
Sighs in the gale, and whispers round the grot,
The sister-woes shall calm her throbbing breast,
And softest slumbers steal her cares to rest.
Thus spoke the Genius, as he stept along,
And bade these lawns to Peace and Truth belong;
Down the steep slopes he led, with modest skill,
The willing path-way, and the vagrant rill;
Stretch'd o'er the marshy vale the willowy mound,
Where shines the lake amid the cultur'd ground;
Rear'd the young woodland, smooth'd the wavy green,
And gave to Beauty all the quiet scene.
O! may no ruder step the bowers prophane,
No midnight wassaler deface the plain!
And when the tempests of the wintry day
Blow golden autumn's varied leaves away,
Winds of the North, restrain your icy gales,
Nor chill the bosom of these Happy Vales!