Poems, moral and descriptive :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems, moral and descriptive

By the late Richard Jago ... (Prepared for the press, and improved by the author, before his death.) To which is added, some account of the life and writings of Mr. Jago

Jago, Richard (1715-1781)

EDGE-HILL:

II.

III.

IV.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

ADAM:

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

EDGE-HILL:

A POEM. In FOUR BOOKS.

THE SECOND EDITION, CORRECTED AND ENLARGED.

“Salve, magna parens frugum, Saturnia tellus,
“Magna virum! tibi res antiquæ laudis, et artes
“Ingredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes.”
Virg.

“Our Sight is the most perfect, and most delightful of all our senses. It fills the mind with the largest variety of ideas, converses with its objects at the greatest distance, and continues the longest in action without being tired, or satiated with its proper enjoyment.” Spect. No 411, On the Pleasures of Imagination.

BOOK I. MORNING.

Argument to Book the First.

The Subject propos'd. Address. Ascent to the Hill. General View. Comparison. Philosophical Account of the Origin and Formation of Mountains, &c. Morning View, comprehending the South-West Part of the Scene, interspers'd with Elements and Examples of rural Taste; shewing, at the same Time, its Connexion with, and Dependance upon Civil Government; and concluding with an Historical Episode of the Red-Horse.

Britannia's rural charms, and tranquil scenes,
Far from the circling ocean, where her fleets,
Like Eden's nightly guards, majestic ride,
I sing; O may the theme and kindred soil
Propitious prove, and to th'appointed hill
Invite the Muses from their cloister'd shades,
With me to rove, and harmonize the strain!

Nor shall they, for a time, regret the loss
Of their lov'd Isis, and fair Cherwel's stream,
While to the north of their own beauteous fields
The pictur'd scene they view, where Avon shapes
His winding way, enlarging as it flows,
Nor hastes to join Sabrina's prouder wave.
Like a tall rampart! here the mountain rears
Its verdant edge; and, if the tuneful Maids
Their presence deign, shall with Parnassus vie.
Level, and smooth the track, which thither leads!
Of champaign bold and fair! Its adverse side
Abrupt, and steep! Thanks, Miller ! to thy paths,
That ease our winding steps! Thanks to the fount,
The trees, the flow'rs, imparting to the sense
Fragrance or dulcet sound of murm'ring rill,
And stilling ev'ry tumult in the breast!
And oft the stately tow'rs, that overtop
The rising wood, and oft the broken arch,
Or mould'ring wall, well taught to counterfeit
The waste of time, to solemn thought excite,
And crown with graceful pomp the shaggy hill.

So Virtue paints the steep ascent to fame:
So her aerial residence displays.

Still let thy friendship, which prepar'd the way,
Attend, and guide me, as my ravish'd sight
O'er the bleak hill, or shelter'd valley roves.
Teach me with just observance to remark
Their various charms, their storied fame record,
And to the visual join the mental search.

The summit's gain'd! and, from its airy height,
The late-trod plain looks like an inland sea,
View'd from some promontory's hoary head,
With distant shores environ'd; not with face
Glassy, and uniform, but when its waves
Are gently ruffled by the southern gale,
And the tall masts like waving forests rise.

Such is the scene! that, from the terrac'd hill,
Displays its graces; intermixture sweet
Of lawns and groves, of open and retir'd.
Vales, farms, towns, villas, castles, distant spires,
And hills on hills, with ambient clouds enrob'd,

In long succession court the lab'ring sight,
Lost in the bright confusion. Thus the youth,
Escap'd from painful drudgery of words,
Views the fair fields of science wide display'd;
Where Phoebus dwells, and all the tuneful Nine;
Perplext awhile he stands, and now to this,
Now that blest seat of harmony divine
Explores his way, with giddy rapture tir'd:
Till some sage Mentor, whose experienc'd feet
Have trod the mazy path, directs his search,
And leads him wond'ring to their bright abodes.
Come then, my Friend! guide thou th'advent'rous Muse,
And, with thy counsel, regulate her flight.

Yet, ere the sweet excursion she begins,
O! listen, while, from sacred records drawn,
My daring song unfolds the cause, whence rose
This various face of things—of high, and low—
Of rough, and smooth. For with its parent earth
Coeval not prevail'd what now appears
Of hill and dale; nor was its new-form'd shape,
Like a smooth, polish'd orb, a surface plain,

Wanting the sweet variety of change,
Concave, convex, the deep, and the sublime:
Nor, from old Ocean's watry bed, were scoop'd
Its neighb'ring shores; nor were they now depress'd,
Now rais'd by sudden shocks; but fashion'd all
In perfect harmony, by laws divine,
On passive matter, at its birth impress'd.

Milton. Paradise Lost, Book iv.

Sanderson Miller, Esquire, of Radway.

See Lord Shaftsbury's Judgment of Hercules.

Amongst the many fanciful conceits of writers on the subject, a learned Divine, in his Confutation of Dr. Burnett's Theory, supposes that hills and mountains might be occasioned by fermentation, after the manner of leaven in dough; while others have attributed their production to the several different causes mentioned above.

The following solution, by the descent of water from the surface of the earth to the center, seem'd most easy, and natural to the author, and is therefore adopted. Vid. Warren's Geologiæ, 1698.

WHEN now two days, as mortals count their time,
Th'Almighty had employ'd on man's abode;
To motion rous'd the dead, inactive mass,
The dark illumin'd, and the parts terrene
Impelling each to each, the circle form'd,

Compact, and firm, of earth's stupendous orb,
With boundless seas, as with a garment cloath'd,
On the third morn he bade the waters flow
Down to their place, and let dry land appear;
And it was so. Strait to their destin'd bed,
From every part, th'obedient waters ran,
Shaping their downward course, and, as they found
Resistance varying with the varying soil,
In their retreat they form'd the gentle slope,
Or headlong precipice, or deep-worn dale,
Or valley, stretching far its winding maze,
As farther still their humid train they led,
By Heav'n directed to the realms below.

Now first was seen the variegated face
Of earth's fair orb shap'd by the plastic flood:
Now smooth and level like its liquid plains,
Now, like its ruffled waves, sweet interchange
Of hill and dale, and now a rougher scene,
Mountains on mountains lifted to the sky.

Such was her infant form, yet unadorn'd!
And in the naked soil the subtle stream
Fretted its winding track. So He ordain'd!
Who form'd the fluid mass of atoms small,
The principles of things! who moist from dry,
From heavy sever'd light, compacting close
The solid glebe, stratum of rock, or ore,
Or crumbly marl, or close tenacious clay,
Or what beside, in wond'rous order rang'd,
Orb within orb, earth's secret depths contains.

So was the shapely sphere, on ev'ry side,
With equal pressure of surrounding air
Sustain'd, of sea and land harmonious form'd.
Nor beauteous cov'ring was withheld, for strait,
At the divine command, the verd'rous grass
Upsprang unsown, with ev'ry seedful herb,

Fruit, plant, or tree, pregnant with future store;
God saw the whole—And lo! 'twas very good.
But man, ungrateful man! to deadly ill
Soon turn'd the good bestow'd, with horrid crimes
Polluting earth's fair seat, his Maker's gift!
Till mercy cou'd no more with justice strive.

Then wrath divine unbarr'd Heav'n's watry gates,
And loos'd the fountains of the great abyss.
Again the waters o'er the earth prevail'd.
Hills rear'd their heads in vain. Full forty days
The flood increas'd, nor, till sev'n moons had wan'd,
Appear'd the mountain-tops. Perish'd all flesh,
One family except! and all the works
Of Art were swept into th'oblivious pool.
In that dread time what change th'avenging flood
Might cause in earth's devoted fabric, who
Of mortal birth can tell? Whether again
'Twas to its first chaotic mass reduc'd,
To be reform'd anew? or, in its orb,
What violence, what disruptions it endur'd?

What ancient mountains stood the furious shock?
What new arose? For doubtless new there are,
If all are not; strong proof exhibiting
Of later rise, and their once fluid state,
By stranger-fossils, in their inmost bed
Of looser mould, or marble rock entomb'd,
Or shell marine, incorp'rate with themselves:
Nor less the conic hill, with ample base,
Or scarry slope by rushing billows torn,
Or fissure deep, in the late delug'd soil
Cleft by succeeding drought, side answering side,
And curve to adverse curve exact oppos'd,
Confess the watry pow'r; while scatter'd trains,
Or rocky fragments, wash'd from broken hills,
Take up the tale, and spread it round the globe.
Then, as the flood retir'd, another face
Of things appear'd, another, and the same!

Taurus, and Libanus, and Atlas feign'd
To prop the skies! and that fam'd Alpine ridge,
Or Appenine, or snow-clad Caucasus,
Or Ararat on whose emergent top
First moor'd that precious barque, whose chosen crew
Again o'erspread earth's universal orb.
For now, as at the first, from ev'ry side
Hasted the waters to their ancient bounds,
The vast abyss! perhaps from thence ascend,
Urg'd by th'incumbent air, thro' mazy clefts
Beneath the deep, or rise in vapours warm,
Piercing the vaulted earth, anon condens'd
Within the lofty mountains' secret cells,
Ere they their summit gain, down their steep sides
To trickle in a never-ceasing round.

So up the porous stone, or crystal tube
The philosophic eye with wonder views
The tinctur'd fluid rise; so tepid dews
From chymic founts in copious streams distil.

Such is the structure, such the wave-worn face
Of Earth's huge fabric! beauteous to the sight,
And stor'd with wonders, to th'attentive mind
Confirming, with persuasive eloquence
Drawn from the rocky mount, or watry fen,
Those sacred pages, which record the past,
And awfully predict its future doom.

Now, while the sun its heav'nly radiance sheds
Across the vale, disclosing all its charms,
Emblem of that fair Light, at whose approach
The Gentile darkness fled! ye nymphs, and swains!
Come haste with me, while now 'tis early morn,
Thro' Upton's airy fields, to where yon' point
Projecting hides Northampton's ancient seat
Retir'd, and hid amidst surrounding shades:
Counting a length of honourable years,
And solid worth; while painted Belvideres,
Naked, aloft, and built but to be seen,
Shrink at the sun, and totter to the wind.

So sober Sense oft shuns the public view,
In privacy conceal'd, while the pert sons
Of Folly flutter in the glare of day.

Hence, o'er the plain, where strip'd with alleys green,
The golden harvest nods, let me your view

Progressive lead to Verney's sister walls,
Alike in honour, as in name allied!
Alike her walls a noble master own,
Studious of elegance. At his command,
New pillars grace the dome with Grecian pomp
Of Corinth's gay design. At his command,
On hill, or plain, new culture cloaths the scene
With verdant grass, or variegated grove;
And bubbling rills in sweeter notes discharge
Their liquid stores. Along the winding vale,
At his command, observant of the shore,
The glitt'ring stream, with correspondent grace,
Its course pursues, and o'er th'exulting wave
The stately bridge a beauteous form displays.
On either side, rich as th'embroider'd floor
From Persia's gaudy looms, and firm as fair,
The chequer'd lawns with count'nance blithe proclaim
The Graces reign. Plains, hills, and woods reply
The Graces reign, and Nature smiles applause.
Smile on, fair source of beauty, source of bliss!

To crown the master's cost, and deck her path
Who shares his joy, of gentlest manners join'd
With manly sense, train'd to the love refin'd
Of Nature's charms in Wroxton's beauteous groves.

Thy neighb'ring villa's ever open gate,
And festive board, O Walton! next invite
The pleasing toil. Unwilling who can pay
To thee the votive strain? For Science here,
And Candour dwell, prepar'd alike to chear
The stranger-guest, or for the nation's weal
To pour the stores mature of wisdom forth,
In senatorial councils often prov'd,
And, by the public voice attested long,
Long may it be! with well-deserv'd applause.
And see, beneath the shade of full-grown elm,
Or near the border of the winding brook,
Skirting the grassy lawn, her polish'd train
Walks forth to taste the fragrance of the grove,

Woodbine, or rose, or to the upland scene
Of wildly-planted hill, or trickling stream
From the pure rock, or moss-lin'd grottos cool,
The Naiads' humid cell! protract the way
With learned converse, or ingenuous song.
The search pursue to Charlecote's fair domain,
Where Avon's sportive stream delighted strays
Thro' the gay smiling meads, and to his bed,
Hele's gentle current wooes, by Lucy's hand
In ev'ry graceful ornament attir'd,
And worthier, such, to share his liquid realms!

Near, nor unmindful of th'increasing flood,
Stratford her spacious magazines unfolds,
And hails th'unwieldly barge from western shores,
With foreign dainties fraught, or native ore
Of pitchy hue, to pile the fewell'd grate
In woolly stores, or husky grain repay'd.
To speed her wealth, lo! the proud Bridge extends

His num'rous arches, stately monument
Of old munificence, and pious love
Of native soil! There Stower exulting pays
His tributary stream, well pleas'd with wave
Auxiliary her pond'rous stores to waft;
And boasting, as he flows, of growing fame,
And wond'rous beauties on his banks display'd—
Of Alscot's swelling lawns, and fretted spires
Of fairest model, Gothic, or Chinese—
Of Eatington's , and Tolton's verdant meads,
And groves of various leaf, and Honington ,
Profuse of charms, and Attic elegance;
Nor fails he to relate, in jocund mood,
How liberally the masters of the scene
Enlarge his current, and direct his course
With winding grace—and how his crystal wave

Reflects th'inverted spires, and pillar'd domes—
And how the frisking deer play on his sides,
Pict'ring their branched heads, with wanton sport,
In his clear face. Pleas'd with the vaunting tale,
Nor jealous of his fame, Avon receives
The prattling stream, and, towards thy nobler flood,
Sabrina fair, pursues his length'ning way.

Hail, beauteous Avon, hail! on whose fair banks
The smiling daisies, and their sister tribes,
Violets, and cuckow-buds, and lady-smocks,
A brighter dye disclose, and proudly tell
That Shakespeare, as he stray'd these meads along,
Their simple charms admir'd, and in his verse
Preserv'd, in never-fading bloom to live.

And thou, whose birth these walls unrival'd boast,
That mock'st the rules of the proud Stagyrite,
And Learning's tedious toil, hail mighty Bard!
Thou great Magician hail! Thy piercing thought
Unaided saw each movement of the mind,
As skilful artists view the small machine,
The secret springs and nice dependencies,

And to thy mimic scenes, by fancy wrought
To such a wond'rous shape, th'impassion'd breast
In floods of grief, or peals of laughter bow'd,
Obedient to the wonder-working strain,
Like the tun'd string responsive to the touch,
Or to the wizard's charm, the passive storm.
Humour and wit, the tragic pomp, or phrase
Familiar flow'd, spontaneous from thy tongue,
As flowers from Nature's lap.—Thy potent spells
From their bright seats aerial sprites detain'd,
Or from their unseen haunts, and slumb'ring shades
Awak'd the fairy tribes, with jocund step
The circled green, and leafy hall to tread:
While, from his dripping caves, old Avon sent
His willing Naiads to their harmless rout.

Alas! how languid is the labour'd song,
The slow result of rules, and tortur'd sense,
Compar'd with thine! thy animated thought,
And glowing phrase! which art in vain essays,
And schools can never teach. Yet, though deny'd
Thy pow'rs, by situation more allied,

I court the genius of thy sportive Muse
On Avon's bank, her sacred haunts explore,
And hear in ev'ry breeze her charming notes.

Beyond these flow'ry meads, with classic streams
Enrich'd, two sister rills their currents join,
And Ikenild displays his Roman pride.
There Alcester her ancient honour boasts.
But fairer fame, and far more happy lot
She boasts, O Ragley ! in thy courtly train
Of Hertford's splendid line! Lo! from these shades,
Ev'n now his sov'reign, studious of her weal,
Calls him to bear his delegated rule
To Britain's sister isle. Hibernia's sons
Applaud the choice, and hail him to their shore
With cordial gratulation. Him, well-pleas'd
With more than filial rev'rence to obey,
Beauchamp attends. What son, but wou'd rejoice

The deeds of such a father to record!
What father, but were blest in such a son!
Nor may the Muse omit with Conway's name
To grace her song. O! might it worthy flow
Of those her theme involves! The cyder-land,
In Georgic strains, by her own Philips sung,
Shou'd boast no brighter fame, though proudly grac'd
With loftiest-titled names—The Cecil line,
Or Beaufort's, or, O Chandois! thine, or his
In Anna's councils high, her fav'rite peer,
Harley! by me still honour'd in his race.

See, how the pillar'd isles and stately dome
Brighten the woodland-shade! while scatter'd hills,
Airy, and light, in many a conic form,
A theatre compose, grotesque and wild,
And, with their shaggy sides, contract the vale
Winding, in straiten'd circuit, round their base.
Beneath their waving umbrage Flora spreads
Her spotted couch, primrose, and hyacinth

Profuse, with ev'ry simpler bud that blows
On hill or dale. Such too thy flow'ry pride
O Hewel ! by thy master's lib'ral hand
Advanc'd to rural fame! Such Umberslade !
In the sweet labour join'd, with culture fair,
And splendid arts, from Arden's woodland shades
The pois'nous damps, and savage gloom to chase.

What happy lot attends your calm retreats,
By no scant bound'ry, nor obstructing fence,
Immur'd, or circumscrib'd; but spread at large
In open day: save what to cool recess
Is destin'd voluntary, not constrain'd
By sad necessity, and casual state
Of sickly peace! Such as the moated hall,
With close circumference of watry guard,
And pensile bridge proclaim! or, rear'd aloft,
And inaccessible the massy tow'rs,
And narrow circuit of embattled walls,

Rais'd on the mountain-precipice! Such thine
O Beaudesert ! old Montfort's lofty seat!
Haunt of my youthful steps! where I was wont
To range, chaunting my rude notes to the wind,
While Somerville disdain'd not to regard
With candid ear, and regulate the strain.

Such was the genius of the Gothic age,
And Norman policy! Such the retreats
Of Britain's ancient Nobles! less intent
On rural beauty, and sweet patronage
Of gentle arts, than studious to restrain,
With servile awe, Barbarian multitudes;
Or, with confed'rate force, the regal pow'r
Controul. Hence proudly they their vassal troops
Assembling, now the fate of empire plann'd:
Now o'er defenceless tribes, with wanton rage,
Tyrannic rul'd; and, in their castled halls
Secure, with wild excess their revels kept,
While many a sturdy youth, or beauteous maid,
Sole solace of their parents' drooping age!

Bewail'd their wretched fate, by force compell'd
To these abhorr'd abodes! Hence frequent wars,
In ancient annals fam'd! Hence haply feign'd
Th'enchanted castle, and its cursed train
Of giants, spectres, and magicians dire!
Hence gen'rous minds, with indignation fir'd,
And threat'ning fierce revenge, were character'd
By gallant knights on bold atchievements bent,
Subduing monsters, and dissolving spells.

Thus, from the rural landscape, learn to know
The various characters of time and place.
To hail, from open scenes, and cultur'd fields,
Fair Liberty, and Freedom's gen'rous reign,
With guardian laws, and polish'd arts adorn'd.
While the portcullis huge, or moated fence
The sad reverse of savage times betray—
Distrust, barbarity, and Gothic rule.

Wou'd ye, with faultless judgment, learn to plan
The rural seat? To copy, as ye rove,
The well-form'd picture, and correct design?
First shun the false extremes of high, and low.

With watry vapours this your fretted walls
Will soon deface; and that, with rough assault,
And frequent tempests shake your tott'ring roof.
Me most the gentle eminence delights
Of healthy champaign, to the sunny south
Fair-op'ning, and with woods, and circling hills,
Nor too remote, nor, with too close embrace,
Stopping the buxom air, behind enclos'd.
But if your lot hath fall'n in fields less fair,
Consult their genius, and, with due regard
To Nature's clear directions, shape your plan.
The site too lofty shelter, and the low
With sunny lawns, and open areas chear.
The marish drain, and, with capacious urns,
And well-conducted streams refresh the dry.
So shall your lawns with healthful verdure smile,
While others, sick'ning at the sultry blaze,
A russet wild display, or the rank blade,
And matted tufts the careless owner shame.
Seek not, with fruitless cost, the level plain
To raise aloft, nor sink the rising hill.
Each has its charms tho' diff'rent, each in kind

Improve, not alter. Art with art conceal.
Let no strait terrac'd lines your slopes deform.
No barb'rous walls restrain the bounded sight.
But to the distant fields the closer scene
Connect. The spacious lawn with scatter'd trees
Irregular, in beauteous negligence,
Clothe bountiful. Your unimprison'd eye,
With pleasing freedom, thro' the lofty maze
Shall rove, and find no dull satiety.
The sportive stream with stiffen'd line avoid
To torture, nor prefer the long canal,
Or labour'd fount to Nature's easy flow.
Your winding paths, now to the sunny gleam
Directed, now with high embow'ring trees,
Or fragrant shrubs conceal'd, with frequent seat,
And rural structure deck. Their pleasing form
To fancy's eye suggests inhabitants
Of more than mortal make, and their cool shade,
And friendly shelter to refreshment sweet,
And wholesome meditation shall invite.

To ev'ry structure give its proper site.
Nor, on the dreary heath, the gay alcove,
Nor the lone hermit's cell, or mournful urn
Build on the sprightly lawn. The grassy slope
And shelter'd border for the cool arcade
Or Tuscan porch reserve. To the chaste dome,
And fair rotunda give the swelling mount
Of freshest green. If to the Gothic scene
Your taste incline, in the well-water'd vale,
With lofty pines embrown'd, the mimic fane,
And mould'ring abbey's fretted windows place.
The craggy rock, or precipitious hill,
Shall well become the castle's massy walls.
In royal villas the Palladian arch,
And Grecian portico, with dignity,
Their pride display: ill suits their lofty rank
The simpler scene. If chance historic deeds
Your fields distinguish, count them doubly fair,
And studious aid, with monumental stone,
And faithful comment, fancy's fond review.

Now other hills, with other wonders stor'd,
Invite the search. In vain! unless the Muse

The landscape order. Nor will she decline
The pleasing task. For not to her 'tis hard
To soar above the mountain's airy height,
With tow'ring pinions, or, with gentler wing,
T'explore the cool recesses of the vale.
Her piercing eye extends beyond the reach
Of optic tube, levell'd by midnight sage,
At the moon's disk, or other distant sun,
And planetary worlds beyond the orb
Of Saturn. Nor can intervening rocks
Impede her search. Alike the sylvan gloom,
Or earth's profoundest caverns she pervades,
And, to her fav'rite sons, makes visible
All that may grace, or dignify the song,
Howe'er envelop'd from their mortal ken.

So Uriel, winged regent of the sun!
Upon its evening-beam to Paradise
Came gliding down; so, on its sloping ray,
To his bright charge return'd. So th'heav'nly guest,
From Adam's eyes the carnal film remov'd,
On Eden's hill, and purg'd his visual nerve
To see things yet unform'd, and future deeds.

Lo! where the southern hill, with winding course,
Bends tow'rd the west, and, from his airy seat,
Views four fair provinces in union join'd;
Beneath his feet, conspicuous rais'd, and rude,
A massy pillar rears its shapeless head.
Others in stature less, an area smooth
Inclose, like that on Sarum's ancient plain.
And some of middle rank apart are seen:
Distinguish'd those! by courtly character
Of knights, while that the regal title bears.
What now the circle drear, and stiffen'd mass
Compose, like us, were animated forms,
With vital warmth, and sense, and thought endued;
A band of warriors brave! Effect accurs'd
Of necromantic art, and spells impure.

So vulgar fame. But clerks, in antique lore
Profoundly skill'd, far other story tell:
And, in its mystic form, temple, or court
Espy, to fabled gods, or throned kings

Devote; or fabric monumental, rais'd
By Saxon hands, or by that Danish chief
Rollo ! the builder in the name imply'd.

Yet to the west the pleasing search pursue,
Where from the vale, Brails lifts his scarry sides,
And Illmington, and Campden's hoary hills,
(By Lyttelton's sweet plaint, and thy abode
His matchless Lucia! to the Muse endear'd)
Impress new grandeur on the spreading scene,
With champaign fields, broad plain, and covert vale
Diversified: By Ceres some adorn'd
With rich luxuriance of golden grain,
And some in Flora's liv'ry gaily dight,
And some with sylvan honours graceful crown'd.
Witness the forest-glades, with stately pride,
Surrounding Sheldon's venerable dome!
Witness the sloping lawns of Idlicot !

And Honington's irriguous meads! Some wind
Meand'ring round the hills disjoin'd, remote,
Giving full license to their sportive range;
While distant, but distinct, his Alpine ridge
Malvern erects o'er Esham's vale sublime,
And boldly terminates the finish'd scene.

Still are the praises of the Red-Horse Vale
Unsung; as oft it happens to the mind
Intent on distant themes, while what's more near,
And nearer, more important, 'scapes its note.

From yonder far-known hill, where the thin turf
But ill conceals the ruddy glebe, a form
On the bare soil portray'd, like that fam'd steed,
Which, in its womb, the fate of Troy conceal'd,
O'erlooks the vale.—Ye swains, that wish to learn,
Whence rose the strange phænomenon, attend!

Britannia's sons, tho' now for arts renown'd,
A race of ancestors untaught, and rude,
Acknowledge; like those naked Indian tribes,
Which first Columbus in the Atlantic isles
With wonder saw. Alike their early fate,

To yield to conquering arms! Imperial Rome
Was then to them what Britain is to these,
And thro' the subject-land her trophies rear'd.

But haughty Rome, her ancient manners flown,
Stoop'd to Barbaric rage. O'er her proud walls
The Goths prevail, which erst the Punic bands
Assail'd in vain, tho' Cannæ's bloody field
Their valour own'd, and Hannibal their guide!
Such is the fate, which mightiest empires prove,
Unless the virtues of the son preserve
What his forefather's ruder courage won!

No Cato now, the list'ning senate warm'd
To love of virtuous deeds, and public weal.
No Scipios led her hardy sons to war,
With sense of glory fir'd. Thro' all her realms
Or hostile arms invade, or factions shake
Her tott'ring state. From her proud capitol

Her tutelary gods retire, and Rome,
Imperial Rome, once mistress of the world,
A victim falls, so righteous Heav'n ordains,
To Pride and Luxury's all-conqu'ring charms.

Mean time her ancient foes, ere while restrain'd
By Roman arms, from Caledonia's hills
Rush like a torrent, with resistless force,
O'er Britain's fenceless bounds, and thro' her fields
Pour the full tide of desolating war.
Ætius, thrice Consul! now an empty name,
In vain her sons invoke. In vain they seek
Relief in servitude. Ev'n servitude
Its miserable comforts now denies,
From shore to shore they fly. The briny flood,
A guardian once, their further flight restrains.
Some court the boist'rous deep, a milder foe,
Some gain the distant shores, and fondly hope
In each to find a more indulgent home.
The rest, protracting still a wretched life,
From Belgia's coast in wild despair invite
Its new inhabitants, a Saxon race!
On enterprize, and martial conquest bent.

With joy the Saxons to their aid repair,
And soon revenge them on their northern foes.
Revenge too dearly bought! These courted guests
Give them short space for joy. A hostile look
On their fair fields they cast, (for feeble hands
Alas! too fair,) and seize them for their own.

And now again the conquer'd isle assumes
Another form; on ev'ry plain, and hill
New marks exhibiting of servile state,
The massy stone with figures quaint inscrib'd—
Or dyke by Woden, or the Mercian King ,
Vast bound'ry made—or thine, O Ashbury !
And Tysoe's wond'rous theme, the martial Horse,

Carv'd on the yielding turf, armorial sign
Of Hengist, Saxon Chief! of Brunswick now,
And with the British lion join'd, the bird
Of Rome surpassing. Studious to preserve
The fav'rite form, the treach'rous conquerors
Their vassal tribes compel, with festive rites,
Its fading figure yearly to renew,
And to the neighb'ring vale impart its name.

Called in scripture, the deep, the great deep, the deep that lieth under, or beneath the earth—the Tartarus or Erebus of the Heathens.

------So the watry throng
With serpent error wand'ring found their way,
And on the washy ooze deep channels wore.
Easy! ere God had bid the ground be dry,
All but within those banks, where rivers now
Stream, and perpetual draw their humid train.

Milton. Paradise Lost, Book vii.

According to Mr. Hutchinson and his followers.

According to Dr. Burnett's Theory.

There are some remarkable traces of the great event here treated of, in each of these kinds, at Welcombe, near Stratford upon Avon, formerly a seat of the Combe family, the whole scene bearing the strongest marks of some violent conflict of Nature, and particularly of the agency of water.

May not the ebbing and flowing of the sea, to whatever cause it is owing, tend to assist this operation, as the pulsation of the heart accelerates the circulation of the blood in animal bodies?

The reader may see this hypothesis very ably supported by Mr. Catcot, in his Essay on the Deluge, 2d edit. together with many respectable names, ancient and modern, by whom it is patronized. The following passage from Lucretius is quoted by him, as well expressing their general meaning.

Partim quod subter per terras diditur omnes.
Percolatur enim virus, retroque remanat
Materies humoris, et ad caput amnibus omnis
Convenit, unde super terras fluit agmine dulci,
Quà via secta semel liquido pede detulit undas.

Trees of a very large size, torn up by the roots, and other vegetable and animal bodies, the spoils of the deluge, are found in every part of the earth, but chiefly in fens, or bogs, or amongst peat-earth, which is an assemblage of decayed vegetables. See Woodward's Nat. Hist. of the Earth, &c.

Upton, the seat of Robert Child, Esq.

Compton-Winyate, a seat of the Right Hon. the Earl of Northampton, at the foot of Edge-Hill.

Compton-Verney, a seat of the Right Hon. Lord Willoughby de Broke.

Wroxton, the seat of the Right Hon. the Earl of Guilford, father of Lady Willoughby de Broke.

Walton, the seat of Sir Charles Mordaunt, Bart. many years a Member of Parliament for the county of Warwick.

Charlecote, the seat of George Lucy, Esq.

This Bridge was built in the reign of K. Henry VII. at the sole cost and charge of Sir Hugh Clopton, Knt. Lord Mayor of the City of London, and a native of this place.

The seat of James West, Esq.

The seat of the Hon. George Shirley, Esq.

The seat of Sir Henry Parker, Bart.

The seat of Joseph Townshend, Esq.

So called from its situation on the river Alenus, or Alne, and from its being a Roman station on the Ikenild-Street.

A seat of the Right Hon. the Earl of Hertford.

The Right Hon. Henry Seymour Conway, Esq; one of his Majesty's principal Secretaries of State, and brother to the Right Hon. the Earl of Hertford.

The seat of the Right Hon. the Earl of Plymouth.

The seat of the Right Hon. Lord Archer.

The forest, or woodland part of Warwickshire.

So called, from its pleasant rural situation.

Called the Barons wars.

Hæc amat obscurum, volet hæc sub luce videri. Hor.

Stone-henge.

Call'd the King's-stone, or Koning-stone.

Call'd Roll-rich-Stones.

Weston, the seat of William Sheldon, Esq.

The seat of the late Baron Legge, now belonging to Robert Ladbroke, Esq.

Non his juventus orta parentibus
Infecit æquor sanguine Punico,
Pyrrhumque, et ingentem cecidit
Antilochum, Hannibalemque dirum.

Horat.

Wansdyke, or Wodensdyke, a boundary of the kingdom of the West Saxons, in Wiltshire.

Offa, from whom the boundary between the kingdom of the Mercians, and the Britons in Wales, took its name.

Ashbury, in Berkshire, near which is the figure of a horse cut on the side of a hill, in whitish earth, which gives name to the neighbouring valley.

The figure of the Red Horse, here described, is in the parish of Tysoe.

Call'd, from this figure, the Vale of Red-Horse.

END OF THE FIRST BOOK.

BOOK II. NOON.

Argument to Book the Second:

Noon. The Mid-Scene from the Castle on Ratley-Hill. More particular Account of the several Parts of this Scene, and of whatever is most remarkable in it. Warwick. Its Antiquity. Historical Account of the Earls of Warwick. Story of Guy. Guy's-Cliffe. Kenelworth. Its Castle. History of it. Balsal. Wroxal. Coventry. Its Environs. Manufactures. Story of Godiva. Peroration.

The Sun, whose eastern ray had scarcely gilt
The mountain's brow, while up the steep ascent,
With early step, we climb'd, now wide displays
His radiant orb, and half his daily stage
Hath nearly measur'd. From th'illumin'd vale
The soaring mists are drain'd, and, o'er the hill,
No more breathes grateful the cool, balmy air,
Chearing our search, and urging on our steps

Delightful. See, the languid herds forsake
The burning mead, and creep beneath the shade
Of spreading tree, or shelt'ring hedge-row tall:
Or, in the mant'ling pool, rude reservoir
Of wintry rains, and the slow, thrifty spring!
Cool their parch'd limbs, and lave their panting sides.

Let us too seek the shade. Yon' airy dome,
Beneath whose lofty battlements we found
A covert passage to these sultry realms,
Invites our drooping strength, and well befriends
The pleasing comment on fair Nature's book,
In sumptuous volume, open'd to our view.

Ye sportive nymphs! that o'er the rural scene
Preside, you chief! that haunt the flow'ry banks
Of Avon, where, with more majestic wave,
Warwick's illustrious Lord, thro' the gay meads
His dancing current guides, or round the lawn
Directs th'embroider'd verge of various dyes,
O! teach me all its graces to unfold,
And, with your praise, join his attendant fame.

'Tis well! Here shelter'd from the scorching heat,
At large we view the subject vale sublime,

And unimpeded. Hence its limits trace
Stretching, in wanton bound'ry, from the foot
Of this green mountain, far as human ken
Can reach, a theatre immense! adorn'd
With ornaments of sweet variety,
By Nature's pencil drawn—the level meads,
A verdant floor! with brightest gems inlaid,
And richly-painted flow'rs—the tillag'd plain,
Wide-waving to the sun a rival blaze
Of gold, best source of wealth!—the prouder hills,
With outline fair, in naked pomp display'd,
Round, angular, oblong; and others crown'd
With graceful foliage. Over all her horn
Fair Plenty pours, and Cultivation spreads
Her height'ning lustre. See, beneath her touch,
The smiling harvests rise, with bending line,
And wavy ridge, along the dappled glebe
Stretching their lengthen'd beds. Her careful hand
Piles up the yellow grain, or rustling hay
Adust for wintry store—the long-ridg'd mow,
Or shapely pyramid, with conic roof,
Dressing the landscape. She the thick-wove fence

Nurses, and adds, with care, the hedge-row elm.
Around her farms and villages she plans
The rural garden, yielding wholesome food
Of simple viands, and the fragrant herb
Medicinal. The well-rang'd orchard now
She orders, or the shelt'ring clump, or tuft
Of hardy trees, the wintry storms to curb,
Or guard the sweet retreat of village-swain,
With health, and plenty crown'd. Fair Science next,
Her offspring! adds towns, cities, vaulted domes,
And splendid palaces, and chases large,
With lake, and planted grove. Hence Warwick, fair
With rising buildings, Coventry's tall spires,
And Kenelworth! thy stately castle rose,
Which still, in ruin, charms th'astonish'd sight.
To crown the beauteous scene, the curtain'd sky,
Its canopy divine of azure tint,
Spreads heav'nly fair, and softens ev'ry charm.

Now yet again, with accurate survey,
The level plain, hills rising various, woods,
And meadows green, the simple cot, and towns,

Nurs'ries of arts, and commerce! Warwick, fair
With rising buildings, Coventry's tall spires,
Magnificent in ruin Kenelworth!
And still more distant scenes, with legends strange,
And smoaky arts, taught in the dusky schools
Of Tubal's sons, attentive let us scan,
And all their charms, and mysteries explore.

First view, but cautious, the vast precipice;
Lest, startled at the giddy height, thy sense
Swimming forsake thee, and thy trembling limbs,
Unnerv'd, and fault'ring, threaten dang'rous lapse.
Along th'indented bank, the forest-tribes,
The thin-leav'd ash, dark oak, and glossy beech,
Of polish'd rind, their branching boughs extend,
With blended tints, and amicable strife,
Forming a checker'd shade. Below, the lawns,
With spacious sweep, and wild declivity,
To yellow plains their sloping verdure join.

There, white with flocks, and, in her num'rous herds
Exulting, Chadsunt's pastures, large, and fair

Salute the sight, and witness to the fame
Of Lichfield's mitred saint . The furzy heaths
Succeed; close refuge of the tim'rous Hare,
Or prowling Fox, but refuge insecure!
From their dark covert oft the hunter-train
Rouse them unwilling, and, o'er hill, and dale,
With wild, tumultuous joy, their steps pursue.
Just vengeance on the midnight thief! and life
With life aton'd! But that poor, trembling wretch!
‘Who doubts if now she lives,’ what hath she done
Guiltless of blood, and impotent of wrong?
How num'rous, how insatiate yet her foes!
Ev'n in these thickets, where she vainly sought
A safe retreat from man's unfeeling race,
The busy hound, to blood, and slaughter train'd,
Snuffs her sweet vapour, and, to murth'rous rage,
By mad'ning sounds impell'd, in her close seat,
With fury tears her, and her corse devours:
Or scares her o'er the fields, and, by the scent,
With keen desire of reeking gore inflam'd,

Loud-bellowing tortures her with deathful cries.
Nor more secure her path! Man even there,
Watching, with foul intent, her secret haunts,
Plants instruments of death, and round her neck
The fatal snare entwines. Thus Innocence,
In human things, by wily Fraud ensnar'd,
Oft helpless falls, while the bold Plund'rer 'scapes.
Next the wide champaign, and the cheerful downs
Claim notice; chiefly thine, O Chesterton !
Pre-eminent. Nor 'scape the roving eye
Thy solemn wood, and Roman vestiges,
Encampment green, or military road!
Amusive to the grave, historic mind.
Thee Tachbroke joins with venerable shade.
Nor distant far, in Saxon annals fam'd,
The rural court of Offa, Mercian King!

Where, sever'd from its trunk, low lies the head
Of brave Fermundus, slain by coward hands,
As on the turf supine in sleep he lay,
Nor wist it sleep from which to wake no more!

Now Warwick claims the song; supremely fair
In this fair realm; conspicuous rais'd to view
On the firm rock, a beauteous eminence
For health, and pleasure form'd. Full to the south
A stately range of high, embattled walls
And lofty tow'rs, and precipices vast,
Its guardian worth, and ancient pomp confess.
The northern hills, where Superstition long
Her gloomy rites maintain'd, a tranquil scene
Of gentler arts, and pleasures more refin'd
Displays. Lawns, parks, and meadows fair,
And groves around their mingled graces join,
And Avon pours his tributary stream.

On thee contending kings their bounty pour'd,
And call'd the favour'd city by their names.

Thy worth the Romans publish'd, when to thee
Their legions they consign'd. Thee Ethelflede ,
Thy guardian Fair! with royal grace restor'd,
When Pagan foes had raz'd thy goodly streets.
A monarch's care, those walls to learning rais'd,
These an asylum to declining age
A Leicester's love proclaim. Nor pass unsung
The train of gallant chiefs, by thy lov'd name
Distinguish'd, and by deeds of high renown
Gracing the lofty title. Arthgal first,
And brave Morvidus, fam'd in Druid song,
And British annals. Fair Felicia's sire,
Rohand! and with her join'd in wedded love,

Immortal Guy! who near Wintonia's walls
With that gigantic braggard Colebrand hight!
For a long summer's day sole fight maintain'd.
But huge gigantic size, and braggart oaths,
And sword, or massy club dismay'd thee not.
Thy skill the stroke eluded, or thy shield
Harmless receiv'd, while on his batter'd sides
Fell thick thy galling blows, till from his hands
Down dropp'd the pond'rous weapon, and himself
Prostrate, to thy keen blade his grizly head
Reluctant yielded. Lamentations loud,
And shouts victorious, in strange concert join'd,
Proclaim the champion's fall. Thee Athelstan
His great deliverer owns, and meditates
With honours fair, and festive pomp to crown.
But other meed thy thoughtful mind employ'd,
Intent in heav'nly solitude to spend
The precious eve of life. Yet shall the Muse
Thy deed record, and on her patriot list
Enrol thy name, tho' many a Saxon chief
She leaves unsung. A Norman race succeeds,

To thee, fair town ! by charitable deeds,
And pious gifts endear'd. The Beauchamps too
Thou claim'st, for arms, and courtly manners fam'd!
Him chief, whom three imperial Henrys crown'd
With envied honours. Mirror fair was he
Of valour, and of knightly feats atchiev'd
In tilt, and tournament. Thee Nevil boasts
For bold exploits renown'd, with civil strife
When Britain's bleeding realm her weakness mourn'd,
And half her nobles in the contest slain
Of York, and Lancaster. He, sworn to both,
As int'rest tempted, or resentment fir'd,

To Henry now, and now to Edward join'd
His pow'rful aid; now both to empire rais'd,
Now from their summit pluck'd, till in the strife
By Edward's conquering arms at length he fell.
Thou, Clarence, next, and next thy hapless son,
The last Plantagenet awhile appears
To dignify the list; both sacrific'd
To barb'rous policy! Proud Dudley now
From Edward's hand the bright distinction bore,
But soon to Mary paid his forfeit head,
And in his fate a wretched race involv'd:
Thee chief, thee wept by ev'ry gentle Muse,
Fair Jane! untimely doom'd to bloody death,

For treason not thy own. To Rich's line
Was then transfer'd th'illustrious name, to thine
O Greville! last. Late may it there remain!
With promise fair, as now, (more fair what heart
Parental craves?) of long, transmissive worth,
Proud Warwick's name, with growing fame to grace,
And crown, with lasting joy, her castled hill.

Hail, stately pile; fit mansion for the great!
Worthy the lofty title! Worthy him ,
To Beauchamp's gallant race allied! the friend

Of gentle Sidney! to whose long desert,
In royal councils prov'd, his sov'reign's gift
Consign'd the lofty structure: Worthy he!
The lofty structure's splendor to restore.

Nor less intent who now, by lineal right,
His place sustains, with reparations bold,
And well-attemper'd dignity to grace
Th'embattled walls. Nor spares his gen'rous mind
The cost of rural work, plantation large,
Forest, or fragrant shrub; or shelter'd walks,
Or ample, verdant lawns, where the sleek deer
Sport on the brink of Avon's flood, or graze
Beneath the rising walls; magnificence
With grace uniting, and enlarg'd delight
Of prospect fair, and Nature's smiling scenes!

Still is the colouring faint. O! cou'd my verse,
Like their Louisa's pencil'd shades describe
The tow'rs, the woods, the lawns, the winding stream,
Fair like her form, and like her birth sublime!

Not Windsor's royal scenes by Denham sung,
Or that more tuneful bard on Twick'nam's shore
Should boast a loftier strain, but in my verse
Their fame shou'd live, as lives, proportion'd true,
Their beauteous image in her graven lines.

Transporting theme! on which I still cou'd waste
The ling'ring hours, and still protract the song
With new delight; but thy example, Guy!
Calls me from scenes of pomp, and earthly pride,
To muse with thee in thy sequester'd cell .

Here the calm scene lulls the tumultuous breast
To sweet composure. Here the gliding stream,
That winds its watry path in many a maze,
As loth to leave th'enchanted spot, invites
To moralize on fleeting time, and life,
With all its treach'rous sweets, and fading joys,
In emblem shewn, by many a short-liv'd flow'r,
That on its margin smiles, and smiling falls
To join its parent Earth. Here let me delve,
Near thine, my chamber in the peaceful rock,

And think no more of gilded palaces,
And luxury of sense. From the till'd glebe,
Or ever-teeming brook, my frugal meal
I'll gain, and slake my thirst at yonder spring.
Like thee, I'll climb the steep, and mark the scene
How fair! how passing fair! in grateful strains
Singing the praises of creative love.
Like thee, I'll tend the call of mattin bell
To early orisons, and latest tune
My evening song to that more wond'rous love,
Which sav'd us from the grand Apostate's wiles,
And righteous vengeance of Almighty ire,
Justly incens'd. O pow'r of grace divine!
When mercy met with truth, with justice, peace.
Thou, holy Hermit! in this league secure,
Did'st wait Death's vanquish'd spectre as a friend,
To change thy mortal coil for heav'nly bliss.

Next, Kenelworth! thy fame invites the song.
Assemblage sweet of social, and serene!
But chiefly two fair streets, in adverse rows,

Their lengthen'd fronts extend, reflecting each
Beauty on each reciprocal. Between,
A verdant valley, slop'd from either side,
Forms the mid-space, where gently-gliding flows
A crystal stream, beneath the mould'ring base
Of an old abbey's venerable walls.
Still further in the vale her castle lifts
Its stately tow'rs, and tott'ring battlements,
Drest with the rampant ivy's uncheck'd growth
Luxuriant. Here let us pause awhile,
To read the melancholy tale of pomp
Laid low in dust, and, from historic page,
Compose its epitaph. Hail, Clinton! hail!
Thy Norman founder still yon' neighb'ring Green,
And massy walls, with stile Imperial grac'd,
Record. The Montforts thee with hardy deeds,

And memorable siege by Henry's arms,
And senatorial acts, that bear thy name
Distinguish. Thee the bold Lancastrian line,
A royal train! from valiant Gaunt deriv'd,
Grace with new lustre; till Eliza's hand
Transferr'd thy walls to Leicester's favour'd Earl.
He long, beneath thy roof, the maiden Queen,
And all her courtly guests, with rare device
Of mask, and emblematic scenery,
Tritons, and sea-nymphs, and the floating isle,
Detain'd. Nor feats of prowess, joust, or tilt
Of harness'd knights, nor rustic revelry
Were wanting; nor the dance, and sprightly mirth
Beneath the festive walls, with regal state,
And choicest lux'ry serv'd. But regal state,

And sprightly mirth, beneath the festive roof,
Are now no more. No more assembled crowds
At the stern porter's lodge admittance crave.
No more, with plaint, or suit importunate,
The thronged lobby echoes, nor with staff,
Or gaudy badge, the busy pursuivants
Lead to wish'd audience. All, alas! is gone,
And Silence keeps her melancholy court
Throughout the walls; save, where, in rooms of state,
Kings once repos'd! chatter the wrangling daws,
Or screech-owls hoot along the vaulted isles.
No more the trumpet calls the martial band,
With sprightly summons, to the guarded lists;
Nor lofty galleries their pride disclose
Of beauteous nymphs in courtly pomp attir'd,
Watching, with trembling hearts, the doubtful strife,
And, with their looks, inspiring wond'rous deeds.
No more the lake displays its pageant shows,
And emblematic forms. Alike the lake,
And all its emblematic forms are flown,
And in their place mute flocks, and heifers graze,
Or buxom damsels ted the new-mown hay.

What art thou, Grandeur! with thy flatt'ring train
Of pompous lies, and boastful promises?
Where are they now, and what's their mighty sum?
All, all are vanish'd! like the fleeting forms
Drawn in an evening cloud. Nought now remains,
Save these sad relicks of departed pomp,
These spoils of time, a monumental pile!
Which to the vain its mournful tale relates,
And warns them not to trust to fleeting dreams.

Thee too, tho' boasting not a royal train,
The Muse, O Balshal! in her faithful page
Shall celebrate: for long beneath thy roof
A band of warriors bold, of high renown,
To martial deeds, and hazardous emprize
Sworn, for defence of Salem's sacred walls,
From Paynim-foes, and holy pilgrimage.
Now other guests thou entertain'st,
A female band, by female charity

Sustain'd. Thee, Wroxal! too, in fame allied,
Seat of the Poet's, and the Muse's friend!
My verse shall sing, with thy long-exil'd Knight,
By Leonard's pray'rs, from distant servitude,
To these brown thickets, and his mournful mate,
Invisibly convey'd. Yet doubted she
His speech, and alter'd form, and better proof
Impatient urg'd. (So Ithaca's chaste queen
Her much-wish'd lord, by twice ten absent years,
And wise Minerva's guardian care disguis'd,
Acknowledg'd not: so, with suspended faith,
His bridal claim repress'd.) Strait he displays
Part of the nuptial ring between them shar'd,
When in the bold crusade his shield he bore.
The twin memorial of their plighted love
Within her faithful bosom she retain'd.
Quick from its shrine the hallow'd pledge she drew,
To match it with its mate, when, strange to tell!
No sooner had the separated curves

Approach'd each other, but, with sudden spring,
They join'd again, and the small circle clos'd.
So they, long sever'd, met in close embrace.

At length, O Coventry! thy neighb'ring fields,
And fair surrounding villas we attend,
Allesley, and Whitley's pastures, Stivichale,
That views with lasting joy thy green domains,
And Bagington's fair walls, and Stonely! thine,
And Coombe's majestic pile, both boasting once
Monastic pomp, still equal in renown!
And, as their kindred fortunes they compare,
Applauding more the present, than the past.

Ev'n now the pencil'd sheets, unroll'd, display
More sprightly charms of beauteous lawn, and grove,
And sweetly-wand'ring paths, and ambient stream,
To chear with lasting flow th'enamell'd scene,
And themes of song for future bards prepare.

Fair City! thus environ'd! and thyself
For royal grants, and silken arts renown'd!
To thee the docile youth repair, and learn,
With sidelong glance, and nimble stroke, to ply
The flitting shuttle, while their active feet,
In mystic movements, press the subtle stops
Of the loom's complicated frame, contriv'd,
From the loose thread, to form, with wond'rous art,
A texture close, inwrought with choice device
Of flow'r, or foliage gay, to the rich stuff,
Or silky web, imparting fairer worth.
Nor shall the Muse, in her descriptive song,
Neglect from dark oblivion to preserve
Thy mould'ring Cross, with ornament profuse

Of pinnacles, and niches, proudly rais'd,
Height above height, a sculptur'd chronicle!
Less lasting than the monumental verse.
Nor scornful will she flout thy cavalcade,
Made yearly to Godiva's deathless praise,
While gaping crowds around her pageant throng,
With prying look, and stupid wonderment.
Not so the Muse! who, with her virtue fir'd,
And love of thy renown, in notes as chaste
As her fair purpose, from memorials dark,
Shall, to the list'ning ear, her tale explain.

When Edward, last of Egbert's royal race,
O'er sev'n united realms the sceptre sway'd,
Proud Leofric, with trust of sov'reign pow'r,
The subject Mercians rul'd. His lofty state
The loveliest of her sex! a noble dame
Of Thorold's ancient line, Godiva shar'd.
But pageant pomp charm'd not her saintly mind
Like virtuous deeds, and care of others weal.
Such tender passions in his haughty breast

He cherish'd not, but with despotic sway,
Controul'd his vassal tribes, and, from their toil,
His luxury maintain'd. Godiva saw
Their plaintive looks; with grief she saw thy sons,
O Coventry! by tyrant laws oppress'd,
And urg'd her haughty lord, but urg'd in vain!
With patriot-rule, thy drooping arts to chear.
Yet, tho' forbidden e'er again to move
In what so much his lofty state concern'd,
Not so from thought of charitable deed
Desisted she, but amiably perverse
Her hopeless suit renew'd. Bold was th'attempt!
Yet not more bold than fair, if pitying sighs
Be fair, and charity which knows no bounds.
What had'st thou then to fear from wrath inflam'd
At such transcendent guilt, rebellion join'd
With female weakness, and officious zeal?
So thy stern lord might call the gen'rous deed;
Perhaps might punish as befitted deed
So call'd, if love restrain'd not: yet tho' love
O'er anger triumph'd, and imperious rule,

Not o'er his pride; which better to maintain,
His answer thus he artfully return'd.

Why will the lovely partner of my joys,
Forbidden, thus her wild petition urge?
Think not my breast is steel'd against the claims
Of sweet humanity. Think not I hear
Regardless thy request. If piety,
Or other motive, with mistaken zeal,
Call'd to thy aid, pierc'd not my stubborn frame,
Yet to the pleader's worth, and modest charms,
Wou'd my fond love no trivial gift impart.
But pomp and fame forbid. That vassalage,
Which, thoughtless, thou wou'dst tempt me to dissolve,
Exalts our splendor, and augments my pow'r.
With tender bosoms form'd, and yielding hearts,
Your sex soon melts at sights of vulgar woe;
Heedless how glory fires the manly breast
With love of rank sublime. This principle
In female minds a feebler empire holds,
Opposing less the specious arguments
For milder rule, and freedom's popular theme.

But plant some gentler passion in its room,
Some virtuous instinct suited to your make,
As glory is to ours, alike requir'd
A ransom for the vulgar's vassal state,
Then wou'dst thou soon the strong contention own,
And justify my conduct. Thou art fair,
And chaste as fair; with nicest sense of shame,
And sanctity of thought. Thy bosom thou
Did'st ne'er expose to shameless dalliance
Of wanton eyes; nor, ill-concealing it
Beneath the treach'rous cov'ring, tempt aside
The secret glance, with meditated fraud.
Go now, and lay thy modest garments by:
In naked beauty, mount thy milk-white steed,
And through the streets, in face of open day,
And gazing slaves, their fair deliv'rer ride:
Then will I own thy pity was sincere,
Applaud thy virtue, and confirm thy suit.
But if thou lik'st not such ungentle terms,
And sure thy soul the guilty thought abhors!
Know then that Leofric, like thee, can feel,
Like thee, may pity, while he seems severe,

And urge thy suit no more. His speech he clos'd,
And, with strange oaths, confirm'd the sad decree.

Again, within Godiva's gentle breast
New tumults rose. At length her female fears
Gave way, and sweet humanity prevail'd.
Reluctant, but resolv'd, the matchless fair
Gives all her naked beauty to the sun:
Then mounts her milk-white steed, and, thro' the streets,
Rides fearless; her dishevell'd hair a veil!
That o'er her beauteous limbs luxuriant flow'd,
Nurs'd long by Fate for this important day!
Prostrate to earth th'astonish'd vassals bow,
Or to their inmost privacies retire.
All, but one prying slave! who fondly hop'd,
With venial curiosity, to gaze
On such a wond'rous dame. But soul disgrace
O'ertook the bold offender, and he stands,
By just decree, a spectacle abhorr'd,
And lasting monument of swift revenge
For thoughts impure, and beauty's injur'd charms.

Ye guardians of her rights, so nobly won!
Cherish the Muse, who first in modern strains
Essay'd to sing your lovely Patriot's fame,
Anxious to rescue from oblivious time
Such matchless virtue, her heroic deed
Illustrate, and your gay procession grace.

END OF BOOK THE SECOND.

The seat of James Newsam Craggs, Esq.

St. Chadd.

A seat of the Right Honourable Lord Willoughby de Broke, so called from its being a Roman station on the Foss-Way.

A seat of Sir Walter Bagot, Bart.

Offchurch, the seat of Whitwick Knightley, Esq.

The Castle.

The Priory, now the seat of Henry Wise, Esq.

Called Caer-Leon from Guth-Leon, also Caer-Gwayr, or Guaric, from Gwar, two British Kings. Its present name is said to be taken from Warremund, a Saxon.

It was the Præsidium of the Romans.

She rebuilt it when it had been destroyed by the Danes.

The Free-School.

The Hospital.

The first Earl of Warwick, and one of the Knights of King Arthur's round table.

Henry de Novo Burgo, the first Norman Earl, founded the priory at Warwick, and Roger his son built and endowed the church of St. Mary.

Richard Earl of Warwick, in the reigns of K. Henry IV. V. and VI. was Governor of Calais, and Lieutenant General of France. He founded the Lady's Chapel, and lies interred there under a very magnificent monument.

Called Make-King. He was killed at the battle of Barnet.

He married the Earl of Warwick's daughter, and was put to death by his brother, Edward IV.

Beheaded in the Tower by Henry VII. under a pretence of favouring the escape of Peter Warbeck.

Made Earl of Warwick by Edward VI. and afterwards Duke of Northumberland.

Lady Jane Grey, married to a son of the Earl of Warwick.

Robert Lord Rich, created Earl of Warwick by James I.

Greville Lord Brook, first created Earl Brook of Warwick Castle, and afterwards Earl of Warwick, by K. George II.

Sir Fulke Greville, made Baron Brook of Beaucamp's-court, by James I. had the Castle of Warwick, then in a ruinous condition, granted to him; upon which he laid out 20,000 l. He lies buried in a neat octagon building, on the north side of the chancel at Warwick, under a fine marble monument, on which is the following very significant, laconic inscription,

“TROPHOEVM PECCATI!

Fulke Greville, Servant to Queen Elizabeth, Counsellor to King James, and Friend to Sir Philip Sidney.”

The Right Hon. Lady Louisa Greville, daughter to the Right Hon. the Earl of Warwick.

Called Guy's Cliff, the seat of the Right Hon. Lady Mary Greatheed.

Here was anciently an oratory, where tradition says, Guy spent the latter part of his life in devotional exercises.

Geoffry de Clinton, who built both the Castle, and the adjoining Monastery, Temp. Hen. I.

Clinton-Green.

Cæsar's-Tower.

The Montforts, Earls of Leicester, of which Simon de Montfort, and his son Henry, were killed at the battle of Evesham.

Henry III. who besieged this Castle, and call'd a convention here, which passed an act for redeeming forfeited estates, called Dictum de Kenelworth.

From whom a part of this structure is called Lancaster's Buildings.

Granted by Queen Elizabeth to Dudley Earl of Leicester.

Formerly a seat of the Knights Templars, now an Almshouse for poor widows, founded by the Lady Katharine Levison, a descendant of Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester.

The seat of Christopher Wren, Esq; once a nunnery, dedicated to St. Leonard.—See Dugdale's Antiquities.

The seat of M. Neale, Esq.

The seat of Ed. Bowater, Esq; now belonging to Francis Wheeler, Esq.

The seat of Arthur Gregory, Esq; commanding a pleasant view of Coventry park, &c.

The seat of William Bromley, Esq; one of the Representatives in Parliament for the county of Warwick.

The seat of the Right Hon. Lord Leigh.

The seat of the Right Hon. Lord Craven.

Built by Sir William Hollies, Lord Mayor of London, in the reign of King Henry VIII.

Edward the Confessor.

See Dugdale's Antiquities of Warwickshire.

It is pleasant enough to observe, with what gravity the above-mentioned learned writer dwells on the praises of this renown'd lady. “And now, before I proceed,” says he, “I have a word more to say of the noble Countess Godeva, which is, that besides her devout advancement of that pious work of his, i. e. her husband Leofric, in this magnificent monastery, viz. of Monks at Coventry, she gave her whole treasure thereto, and sent for skilful goldsmiths, who, with all the gold and silver she had, made crosses, images of saints, and other curious ornaments.” Which passages may serve as a specimen of the devotion and patriotism of those times.

BOOK III. AFTERNOON.

Argument to Book the Third.

Address to the Right Hon. the Earl of Clarendon. Metaphysical Subtleties exploded. Philosophical Account of Vision, and Optic Glasses. Objects of Sight not sufficiently regarded on Account of their being common. Story relative thereto. Return to the Mid-Scene. Solihul. School-Scene. Bremicham. Its Manufactures. Coal-Mines. Iron-Ore. Process of it. Panegyric upon Iron.

Again, the Muse her airy flight essays.
Will Villers, skill'd alike in classic song,
Or, with a critic's eye, to trace the charms
Of Nature's beauteous scenes, attend the lay?
Will he, accustom'd to soft Latian climes,
As to their softer numbers, deign awhile
To quit the Mantuan Bard's harmonious strain,
By sweet attraction of the theme allur'd?
The Latian Poet's song is still the same.

Not so the Latian fields. The gentle Arts
That made those fields so fair, when Gothic Rule,
And Superstition, with her bigot train,
Fixt there their gloomy seat, to this fair Isle
Retir'd, with Freedom's gen'rous sons to dwell,
To grace her cities, and her smiling plains
With plenty cloathe, and crown the rural toil.

Nor hath he found, throughout those spacious realms
Where Albis flows, and Ister's stately flood,
More verdant meads, or more superb remains
Of old magnificence, than his own fields
Display, where Clinton's venerable walls
In ruin, still their ancient grandeur tell.

Requires there aught of learning's pompous aid
To prove that all this outward frame of things
Is what it seems, not unsubstantial air,
Ideal vision, or a waking dream,

Without existence, save what Fancy gives?
Shall we, because we strive in vain to tell
How Matter acts on incorporeal Mind,
Or how, when sleep has lock'd up ev'ry sense,
Or fevers rage, Imagination paints
Unreal scenes, reject what sober sense,
And calmest thought attest? Shall we confound
States wholly diff'rent? Sleep with wakeful life?
Disease with health? This were to quit the day,
And seek our path at midnight. To renounce
Man's surest evidence, and idolize
Imagination. Hence then banish we
These metaphysic subtleties, and mark
The curious structure of these visual orbs,
The windows of the mind; substance how clear,
Aqueous, or crystalline! through which the soul,
As thro' a glass, all outward things surveys.

See, while the sun gilds, with his golden beam,
Yon' distant pile, which Hyde, with care refin'd,
From plunder guards, its form how beautiful!
Anon some cloud his radiance intercepts,
And all the splendid object fades away.

Or, if some incrustation o'er the sight
Its baleful texture spread, like a clear lens,
With filth obscur'd! no more the sensory,
Thro' the thick film, imbibes the chearful day,
‘But cloud instead, and ever-during night
Surround it.’ So, when on some weighty truth
A beam of heav'nly light its lustre sheds,
To Reason's eye it looks supremely fair.
But if foul Passion, or distemper'd Pride,
Impede its search, or Phrenzy seize the brain,
Then Ignorance a gloomy darkness spreads,
Or Superstition, with mishapen forms,
Erects its savage empire in the mind.

The vulgar race of men, like herds that graze,
On Instinct live, not knowing how they live;
While Reason sleeps, or waking stoops to Sense.
But sage Philosophy explores the cause
Of each phænomenon of sight, or sound,
Taste, touch, or smell; each organ's inmost frame,
And correspondence with external things:
Explains how diff'rent texture of their parts
Excites sensations diff'rent, rough, or smooth,

Bitter, or sweet, fragrance, or noisome scent:
How various streams of undulating air,
Thro' the ear's winding labyrinth convey'd,
Cause all the vast variety of sounds.
Hence too the subtle properties of light,
And sev'n-fold colour are distinctly view'd
In the prismatic glass, and outward forms
Shewn fairly drawn, in miniature divine,
On the transparent eye's membraneous cell.
By combination hence of diff'rent orbs,
Convex, or concave, thro' their crystal pores,
Transmitting variously the solar ray,
With line oblique, the telescopic tube
Reveals the wonders of the starry sphere,
Worlds above worlds; or, in a single grain,
Or watry drop, the penetrative eye
Discerns innumerable inhabitants
Of perfect structure, imperceptible
To naked view. Hence each defect of sense
Obtains relief; hence to the palsy'd ear
New impulse, vision new to languid sight,
Surprize to both, and youthful joys restor'd!

Cheap is the bliss we never knew to want!
So graceless spendthrifts waste unthankfully
Those sums, which Merit often seeks in vain,
And Poverty wou'd kneel to call its own.
So objects, hourly seen, unheeded pass,
At which the new-created sight would gaze
With exquisite delight. Doubt ye this truth?
A tale shall place it fairer to your view.

A youth there was, a youth of lib'ral mind,
And fair proportion in each lineament
Of outward form; but dim suffusion veil'd
His sightless orbs, which roll'd, and roll'd in vain
To find the blaze of day. From infancy,
Till full maturity glow'd on his cheek,
The long, long night its gloomy empire held,
And mock'd each gentle effort, lotions,
Or cataplasms, by parental hands,
With fruitless care employ'd. At length a Leech,
Of skill profound, well-vers'd in optic lore,

An arduous task devis'd aside to draw
The veil, which, like a cloud, hung o'er his sight,
And ope a lucid passage to the sun.
Instant the Youth the promis'd blessing craves.
But first his parents, with uplifted hands,
The healing Pow'rs invoke, and pitying friends
With sympathizing heart, the rites prepare:
'Mongst these, who well deserv'd the important trust,
A gentle Maid there was, that long had wail'd
His hapless fate. Full many a tedious hour
Had she, with converse, and instructive song,
Beguil'd. Full many a step darkling her arm
Sustain'd him; and, as they their youthful days
In friendly deeds, and mutual intercourse
Of sweet endearment pass'd, love in each breast
His empire fix'd; in her's with pity join'd,
In his with gratitude, and deep regard.

The friendly wound was giv'n; th'obstructing film
Drawn artfully aside; and, on his sight
Burst the full tide of day. Surpriz'd he stood,
Not knowing where he was, nor what he saw!
The skilful artist first, as first in place

He view'd, then seiz'd his hand, then felt his own,
Then mark'd their near resemblance, much perplex'd,
And still the more perplex'd, the more he saw.

Now silence first th'impatient mother broke,
And, as her eager looks on him she bent,
“My son,” she cried, “my son!” On her he gaz'd
With fresh surprize. And, what? he cried, art thou
My mother? for thy voice bespeaks thee such,
Tho' to my sight unknown. Thy mother I!
She quick reply'd, thy sister, brother these—
O! 'tis too much, he said; too soon to part,
Ere well we meet! But this new flood of day
O'erpow'rs me, and I feel a death-like damp
Chill all my frame, and stop my fault'ring tongue.

Now Lydia, so they call'd his gentle friend,
Who, with averted eye, but, in her soul,
Had felt the lancing steel, her aid apply'd,
And stay, dear youth, she said, or with thee take
Thy Lydia, thine alike in life, or death.

At Lydia's name, at Lydia's well-known voice,
He strove again to raise his drooping head,

And ope his closing eye, but strove in vain,
And on her trembling bosom sunk away.

Now other fears distract his weeping friends.
But short this grief! for soon his life return'd,
And, with return of life, return'd their peace.
Yet, for his safety, they resolve awhile
His infant sense from day's bright beams to guard,
Ere yet again they tempt such dang'rous joy.

As, when from some transporting dream awak'd,
We fondly on the sweet delusion dwell,
And, with intense reflection, to our minds
Picture th'enchanted scene—angelic forms—
Converse sublime—and more than waking bliss!
Till the coy vision, as the more we strive
To paint it livelier on th'enraptur'd sense,
Still fainter grows, and dies at last away:
So dwelt the Youth on his late transient joy,
So long'd the dear remembrance to renew.

At length, again the wish'd-for day arriv'd.
The task was Lydia's! her's the charge, alone
From dangers new to guard the dear delight;
But first th'impatient Youth she thus address'd.

Dear Youth! my trembling hands but ill essay
This tender task, and with unusual fear,
My flutt'ring heart forebodes some danger nigh.

Dismiss thy fears, he cried, nor think so ill
I con thy lessons, as still need be taught
To hail, with caution, the new-coming day.
Then loose these envious folds, and teach my sight,
If more can be, to make thee more belov'd.

Ah! there's my grief, she cried: 'tis true our hearts
With mutual passion burn, but then 'tis true
Thou ne'er hast known me by that subtle sense
Thro' which love most an easy passage finds;
That sense! which soon may shew thee many a maid
Fairer than Lydia, tho' more faithful none.
And may she not cease then to be belov'd?
May she not then, when less thou need'st her care,
Give place to some new charmer? 'Tis for this
I sigh; for this my sad foreboding fears
New terrors form. And can'st thou then, he cried,
Want aught that might endear thee to my soul?
Art thou not excellence? Art thou not all
That man cou'd wish? Goodness, and gentlest love?

Can I forget thy long assiduous care?
Thy morning-tendance, surest mark to me
Of day's return, of night thy late adieu?
Do I need aught to make my bliss compleat,
When thou art by me? when I press thy hand?
When I breath fragrance at thy near approach;
And hear the sweetest music in thy voice?
Can that, which to each other sense is dear,
So wond'rous dear, be otherwise to sight?
Or can sight make, what is to reason good,
And lovely, seem less lovely, and less good?
Perish the sense, that wou'd make Lydia such!
Perish its joys, those joys however great!
If to be purchas'd with the loss of thee.
O my dear Lydia! if there be indeed
The danger thou report'st, O! by our love,
Our mutual love, I charge thee, ne'er unbind
These hapless orbs, or tear them from their seat,
Ere they betray me thus to worse than death.

No, Heav'n forbid! she cried, for Heav'n hath heard
Thy parents pray'rs, and many a friend now waits
To mingle looks of cordial love with thine.

And shou'd I rob them of the sacred bliss?
Shou'd I deprive thee of the rapt'rous sight?
No! be thou happy; happy be thy friends;
Whatever fate attends thy Lydia's love;
Thy hapless Lydia!—Hapless did I say?
Ah! wherefore? wherefore wrong I thus thy worth?
Why doubt thy well-known truth, and constant mind?
No, happiest she of all the happy train,
In mutual vows, and plighted faith secure!

So saying, she the silken bandage loos'd,
Nor added further speech, prepar'd to watch
The new surprize, and guide the doubtful scene,
By silence more than tenfold night conceal'd.
When thus the Youth. And is this then the world,
In which I am to live? Am I awake?
Or do I dream? Or hath some pow'r unknown,
Far from my friends, far from my native home;
Convey'd me to these radiant seats? O thou!
Inhabitant of this enlighten'd world!
Whose heav'nly softness far transcends his shape,
By whom this miracle was first atchiev'd,
O! deign thou to instruct me where I am;

And how to name thee by true character,
Angel, or mortal! Once I had a friend,
Who, but till now, ne'er left me in distress.
Her speech was harmony, at which my heart
With transport flutter'd; and her gracious hand
Supplied me with whate'er my wish cou'd form;
Supply, and transport ne'er so wish'd before!
Never, when wanted, yet, so long denied!
Why is she silent now, when most I long
To hear her heav'nly voice? why flies she not
With more than usual speed to crown my bliss?
Ah! did I leave her in that darksome world?
Or rather dwells she not in these bright realms,
Companion fit for such fair forms as thine?
O! teach me, if thou canst, how I may find
This gentle counsellor; when found, how know
By this new sense, which, better still to rate
Her worth, I chiefly wish'd. The lovely form
Replied, In me behold that gentle friend,
If still thou own'st me such. O! yes, 'tis she,
He cried; 'tis Lydia! 'tis her charming voice!
O! speak again; O! let me press thy hand:

On these I can rely. This new-born sense
May cheat me. Yet so much I prize thy form,
I willingly would think it tells me true—

Ha! what are these? Are they not they, of whom
Thou warn'dst me? Yes—true—they are beautiful.
But have they lov'd like thee, like thee convers'd?
They move not as we move, they bear no part
In my new bliss. And yet methinks, in one,
Her form I can descry, tho' now so calm!
Who call'd me son. Mistaken Youth! she cried,
These are not what they seem; are not as we,
Not living substances, but pictur'd shapes,
Resemblances of life! by mixture form'd
Of light, and shade, in sweet proportion join'd.
But hark! I hear, without, thy longing friends,
Who wait my summons, and reprove my stay.

To thy direction, cried th'enraptur'd Youth,
To thy direction I commit my steps.
Lead on, be thou my guide, as late, so now,
In this new world, and teach me how to use
This wond'rous faculty; which thus, so soon
Mocks me with phantoms. Yet enough for me!

That all my past experience joins with this
To tell me I am happier than I know.
To tell me thou art Lydia! From whose side
I never more will part! with whom compar'd,
All others of her sex, however fair,
Shall be like painted, unsubstantial forms.

So when the soul, inflam'd with strong desire
Of purer bliss, its earthly mansion leaves,
Perhaps some friendly genius, wont to steer
With ministerial charge, his dang'rous steps;
Perhaps some gentle partner of his toil,
More early blest, in radiant lustre clad,
And form celestial, meets his dazzled sight;
And guides his way, thro' trackless fields of air,
To join, with rapt'rous joy, th'ethereal train.

Now to the midland search the Muse returns.
For more, and still more busy scenes remain;
The promis'd schools of wise artificers
In brass, and iron. But another school
Of gentler arts demands the Muse's song,
Where first she learn'd to scan the measur'd verse,
And aukwardly her infant notes essay'd.

Hail Solihul! respectful I salute
Thy walls; more awful once! when, from the sweets
Of festive freedom, and domestic ease,
With throbbing heart, to the stern discipline
Of pædagogue morose I sad return'd.
But tho' no more his brow severe, nor dread
Of birchen sceptre awes my riper age,
A sterner tyrant rises to my view,
With deadlier weapon arm'd. Ah! Critic! spare,
O! spare the Muse, who feels her youthful fears
On thee transfer'd, and trembles at thy lash.
Against the venal tribe, that prostitutes
The tuneful art, to sooth the villain's breast,
To blazon fools, or feed the pamper'd lust
Of bloated vanity; against the tribe
Which casts its wanton jests at holy truths,
Or clothes, with virtue's garb, th'accursed train
Of loathsome vices, lift thy vengeful arm,
And all thy just severity exert.
Enough to venial faults, and hapless want
Of animated numbers, such as breathe

The soul of epic song, hath erst been paid
Within these walls, still stain'd with infant blood.

Yet may I not forget the pious care
Of love parental, anxious to improve
My youthful mind. Nor yet the debt disown
Due to severe restraint, and rigid laws,
The wholesome curb of Passion's headstrong reign.
To them I owe that ere, with painful toil,
Thro' Priscian's crabbed rules, laborious task!
I held my course, till the dull, tiresome road
Plac'd me on classic ground, that well repaid
The labours of the way. To them I owe
The pleasing knowledge of my youthful mates
Matur'd in age, and honours. These among,
I gratulate whom Augusta's senate hails
Father! and, in each charge, and high employ,
Found worthy all her love, with amplest trust,
And dignity invests. And well I ween,
Her tribunitial pow'r, and purple pomp
On thee confers, in living manners school'd
To guard her weal, and vindicate her rights,
O Ladbroke! once in the same fortunes class'd

Of early life; with count'nance unestrang'd,
For ev'ry friendly deed still vacant found!

Nor can the Muse, while she these scenes surveys,
Forget her Shenstone, in the youthful toil
Associate; whose bright dawn of genius oft
Smooth'd my incondite verse; whose friendly voice
Call'd me from giddy sports to follow him
Intent on better themes—call'd me to taste
The charms of British song, the pictur'd page
Admire, or mark his imitative skill;
Or with him range in solitary shades,
And scoop rude grottos in the shelving bank.
Such were the joys that cheer'd life's early morn!
Such the strong sympathy of soul, that knit
Our hearts congenial in sweet amity!
On Cherwel's banks, by kindred science nurs'd;
And well-matur'd in life's advancing stage,
When, on Ardenna's plain, we fondly stray'd,
With mutual trust, and amicable thought;
Or in the social circle gaily join'd:
Or round his Leasowe's happy circuit rov'd;
On hill, and dale invoking ev'ry Muse,

Nor Tempe's shade, nor Aganippe's fount
Envied; so willingly the Dryads nurs'd
His groves; so lib'rally their crystal urns
The Naiads pour'd, enchanted with his spells;
And pleas'd to see their ever-flowing streams
Led by his hand, in many a mazy line;
Or, in the copious tide, collected large,
Or tumbling from the rock, in sportive falls,
Now, from the lofty bank, precipitate;
And now, in gentler course, with murmurs soft
Soothing the ear; and now, in concert join'd,
Fall above fall, oblique, and intricate,
Among the twisted roots. Ah! whilst I write,
In deeper murmur flows the sadning stream;
Wither the groves; and from the beauteous scene,
Its soft enchantments fly. No more for me
A charm it wears, since he alas! is gone,
Whose genius plann'd it, and whose spirit grac'd.
Ah! hourly does the fatal doom, pronounc'd
Against rebellious sin, some social band
Dissolve, and leave a thousand friends to weep,
Soon such themselves, as those they now lament!

This mournful tribute to thy mem'ry paid!
The Muse pursues her solitary way;
But heavily pursues, since thou art gone,
Whose counsel brighten'd, and whose friendship shar'd
The pleasing task. Now Bremicham! to thee
She steers her flight, and, in thy busy scenes,
Seeks to restrain awhile the starting tear.

Yet ere her song describes the smoky forge,
Or sounding anvil, to the dusky heath
Her gentle train she leads. What? tho' no grain,
Or herbage sweet, or waving woods adorn
Its dreary surface, yet it bears, within,
A richer treasury. So worthy minds
Oft lurk beneath a rude, unsightly form.
More hapless they! that few observers search,
Studious to find this intellectual ore,
And stamp, with gen'rous deed, its current worth.
Here many a merchant turns adventurer,
Encourag'd, not disgusted. Interest thus,
On sordid minds, with stronger impulse works,
Than virtue's heav'nly flame. Yet Providence
Converts to gen'ral use man's selfish ends.

Hence are the hungry fed, the naked cloath'd,
The wintry damps dispell'd, and social mirth
Exults, and glows before the blazing hearth.

When likely signs th'adventrous search invite,
A cunning artist tries the latent soil:
And if his subtle engine, in return,
A brittle mass contains of sable hue,
Strait he prepares th'obstructing earth to clear,
And raise the crumbling rock. A narrow pass
Once made, wide, and more wide the gloomy cave
Stretches its vaulted isles, by num'rous hands
Hourly extended. Some the pick-axe ply,
Loos'ning the quarry from its native bed.
Some waft it into light. Thus the grim ore,
Here useless, like the miser's brighter hoard,
Is from its prison brought, and sent abroad,
The frozen hours to cheer, to minister
To needful sustenance, and polish'd arts.
Mean while the subterraneous city spreads
Its covert streets, and echoes with the noise
Of swarthy slaves, and instruments of toil.
They, such the force of Custom's pow'rful laws!

Pursue their sooty labours, destitute
Of the sun's cheering light, and genial warmth.
And oft a chilling damp, or unctuous mist,
Loos'd from the crumbly caverns, issues forth,
Stopping the springs of life. And oft the flood,
Diverted from its course, in torrents pours,
Drowning the nether world. To cure these ills
Philosophy two curious arts supplies,
To drain th'imprison'd air, and, in its place,
More pure convey, or, with impetuous force,
To raise the gath'ring torrents from the deep.
One from the wind its salutary pow'r
Derives, thy charity to sick'ning crowds,
From cheerful haunts, and Nature's balmy draughts
Confin'd; O friend of man, illustrious Hales!
That, stranger still! its influence owes to air ,
By cold, and heat alternate now condens'd,
Now rarefied . Agent! to vulgar thought

How seeming weak, in act how pow'rful seen!
So Providence, by instruments despis'd,
All human force, and policy confounds.

But who that fiercer element can rule?
When, in the nitrous cave, the kindling flame,
By pitchy vapours fed, from cell to cell,
With fury spreads, and the wide fewell'd earth,
Around, with greedy joy, receives the blaze.
By its own entrails nourish'd, like those mounts
Vesuvian, or Ætnean, still it wastes,
And still new fewel for its rapine finds
Exhaustless. Wretched he! who journeying late,
O'er the parch'd heath, bewilder'd, seeks his way.
Oft will his snorting steed, with terror struck,
His wonted speed refuse, or start aside,
With rising smoak, and ruddy flame annoy'd.
While, at each step, his trembling rider quakes,
Appall'd with thoughts of bog, or cavern'd pit,
Or treach'rous earth, subsiding where they tread,
Tremendous passage to the realms of death!

Yet want there not ev'n here some lucid spots
The smoaky scene to cheer, and, by contrast,

More fair. Such Dartmouth's cultivated lawns!
Himself, distinguish'd more with ornament
Of cultur'd manners, and supernal light!
Such thine, O Bridgman! Such—but envious time
Forbids the Muse to these fair scenes to rove,
Still minding her of her unfinish'd theme,
From russet heaths, and smould'ring furnaces,
To trace the progress of thy steely arts,
Queen of the sounding anvil! Aston thee,
And Edgbaston with hospitable shade,
And rural pomp invest. O! warn thy sons;
When, for a time, their labours they forget,
Not to molest these peaceful solitudes.
So may the masters of the beauteous scene,
Protect thy commerce, and their toil reward.

Nor does the barren soil conceal alone
The sable rock inflammable. Oft-times
More pond'rous ore beneath its surface lies,
Compact, metallic, but with earthy parts
Incrusted. These the smoaky kiln consumes,
And to the furnace's impetuous rage
Consigns the solid ore. In the fierce heat
The pure dissolves, the dross remains behind.
This push'd aside, the trickling metal flows
Thro' secret valves along the channel'd floor,
Where in the mazy moulds of figur'd sand,
Anon it hardens. Now the busy forge
Reiterates its blows, to form the bar
Large, massy, strong. Another art expands,
Another yet divides the yielding mass
To many a taper length, fit to receive
The artist's will, and take its destin'd form.

Soon o'er thy furrow'd pavement, Bremicham!
Ride the loose bars obstrep'rous; to the sons
Of languid sense, and frame too delicate
Harsh noise perchance, but harmony to thine.

100

Instant innumerable hands prepare
To shape, and mould the malleable ore.
Their heavy sides th'inflated bellows heave,
Tugged by the pulley'd line, and, with their blast
Continuous, the sleeping embers rouse,
And kindle into life. Strait the rough mass,
Plung'd in the blazing hearth, its heat contracts,
And glows transparent. Now, Cyclopean chief!
Quick on the anvil lay the burning bar,
And with thy lusty fellows, on its sides
Impress the weighty stroke. See, how they strain
The swelling nerve, and lift the sinewy arm
In measur'd time; while with their clatt'ring blows,
From street to street the propagated sound
Increasing echoes, and, on ev'ry side,
The tortur'd metal spreads a radiant show'r.

'Tis noise, and hurry all! The thronged street,
The close-piled warehouse, and the busy shop!

101

With nimble stroke the tinkling hammers move;
While slow, and weighty the vast sledge descends,
In solemn base responsive, or apart,
Or socially conjoin'd in tuneful peal.
The rough file grates; yet useful is its touch,
As sharp corrosives to the schirrhous flesh,
Or, to the stubborn temper, keen rebuke.

How the coarse metal brightens into fame
Shap'd by their plastic hands! what ornament!
What various use! See there the glitt'ring knife
Of temper'd edge! The scissars' double shaft,
Useless apart, in social union join'd,
Each aiding each! Emblem how beautiful
Of happy nuptial leagues! The button round,
Plain, or imbost, or bright with steely rays!
Or oblong buckle, on the lacker'd shoe,
With polish'd lustre, bending elegant
Its shapely rim. But who can count the forms

102

That hourly from the glowing embers rise,
Or shine attractive thro' the glitt'ring pane,
And emulate their parent fires? what art
Can, in the scanty bounds of measur'd verse,
Display the treasure of a thousand mines
To wond'rous shapes by stubborn labour wrought?

Nor this alone thy praise. Of various grains
Thy sons a compound form, and to the fire
Commit the precious mixture, if perchance
Some glitt'ring mass may bless their midnight toil,
Or glossy varnish, or enamel fair,
To shame the pride of China, or Japan.
Nor wanting is the graver's pointed steel,
Nor pencil, wand'ring o'er the polish'd plate,
With glowing tints, and mimic life endued.
Thine too, of graceful form, the letter'd type!
The friend of learning, and the poet's pride!
Without thee what avail his splendid aims,

103

And midnight labours? Painful drudgery!
And pow'rless effort! But that thought of thee
Imprints fresh vigour on his panting breast,
As thou ere long shalt on his work impress;
And, with immortal fame, his praise repay.

Hail, native British Ore! of thee possess'd,
We envy not Golconda's sparkling mines,
Nor thine Potosi! nor thy kindred hills,
Teeming with gold. What? tho' in outward form
Less fair? not less thy worth. To thee we owe
More riches than Peruvian mines can yield,
Or Motezuma's crowded magazines,
And palaces cou'd boast, though roof'd with gold.
Splendid barbarity! and rich distress!
Without the social arts, and useful toil;
That polish life, and civilize the mind!
These are thy gifts, which gold can never buy.

Thine is the praise to cultivate the soil;
To bare its inmost strata to the sun;
To break, and meliorate the stiffen'd clay,
And, from its close confinement, set at large
Its vegetative virtue. Thine it is

104

The with'ring hay, and ripen'd grain to sheer,
And waft the joyous harvest round the land.

Go now, and see if, to the Silver's edge,
The reedy stalk will yield its bearded store,
In weighty sheafs. Or if the stubborn marle,
In sidelong rows, with easy force will rise
Before the Silver plowshare's glitt'ring point.
Or wou'd your gen'rous horses tread more safe
On plated Gold? Your wheels, with swifter force
On golden axles move? Then grateful own,
Britannia's sons! Heav'n's providential love,
That gave you real wealth, not wealth in shew,
Whose price in bare imagination lies,
And artificial compact. Thankful ply
Your Iron arts, and rule the vanquish'd world.

Hail, native Ore! without thy pow'rful aid,
We still had liv'd in huts, with the green sod,
And broken branches roof'd. Thine is the plane,
The chissel thine; which shape the well-arch'd dome,
The graceful portico; and sculptur'd walls.

Wou'd ye your coarse, unsightly mines exchange
For Mexiconian hills? to tread on gold,

105

As vulgar sand? with naked limbs, to brave
The cold, bleak air? to urge the tedious chace,
By painful hunger stung, with artless toil,
Thro' gloomy forests, where the sounding axe,
To the sun's beam, ne'er op'd the cheerful glade,
Nor culture's healthful face was ever seen?
In squalid huts to lay your weary limbs,
Bleeding, and faint, and strangers to the bliss
Of home-felt ease, which British swains can earn,
With a bare spade; but ill alas! cou'd earn,
With spades of gold? Such the poor Indian's lot!
Who starves 'midst gold, like misers o'er their bags;
Not with like guilt! Hail, native British Ore!
For thine is trade, that with its various stores,
Sails round the world, and visits ev'ry clime,
And makes the treasures of each clime her own,
By gainful commerce of her woolly vests,
Wrought by the spiky comb; or steely wares,
From the coarse mass, by stubborn toil, refin'd.
Such are thy peaceful gifts! And War to thee
Its best support, and deadliest horror owes,

106

The glitt'ring faulchion, and the thund'ring tube!
At whose tremendous gleam, and volley'd fire,
Barbarian kings fly from their useless hoards,
And yield them all to thy superior pow'r.

END OF BOOK THE THIRD.

The magnificent ruins of Kenilworth Castle, built by Geofry de Clinton, and more particularly described in the preceding book, belong to the Right Hon. the Earl of Clarendon, many years resident in Italy, and Envoy to most of the Courts in Germany.

For the general subject of the following story, see the Tatler, Numb. 55, and Smith's Optics.

The Ventilator.

Dr. Stephen Hales.

The Fire-engine.

“Densat erant quæ rara modo, et quæ densa relaxat.”

Sandwel, the seat of the Right Hon. the Earl of Dartmouth.

Castle-Bromwick, the seat of Sir Henry Bridgman, Bart.

Bremicham, alias Birmingham.

The seat of Sir Lister Holt, Bart.

The seat of Sir Henry Gough, Bart.

“Illi inter sese magnâ vi brachia tollunt
“In numerum, versantque tenaci forcipe ferrum.

Virg.

“Tum ferri rigor, et argutæ lamina serræ,
“Tum variæ venere artes, &c.”

Virg.

“Sed neque quàm multæ species, nec nomina quæ sint,
“Est numerus: neque enim numero comprêndere refert.”

Virg.

107

BOOK IV. EVENING.

108

Argument to Book the Fourth.

Evening Walk along the Hill to the N. E. Point. Scene from thence. Dasset-Hills. Farnborough. Wormleighton. Shuckburg. Leame and Ichene. Places near those two Rivers. Bennones, or High-Cross. Foss-Way. Watling-Street. Inland Navigation. Places of Note. Return. Panegyric on the Country. The Scene moralized. Tho' beautiful, yet transient. Change by Approach of Winter. Of Storms and Pestilential Seasons. Murrain. Rot amongst the Sheep. General Thoughts on the Vanity and Disorders of human Life. Battle of Edge-Hill. Reflections. Conclusion.

109

In purple vestments clad, the temper'd sky
Invites us from our hospitable roof,
To taste her influence mild; while to the west
The jocund sun his radiant chariot drives,
With rapid course, untir'd. Ye nymphs, and swains!
Now quit the shade, and, with recruited strength,
Along the yet untroden terrace urge
Your vig'rous steps. With moderated heat,

110

And ray oblique, the sun shall not o'erpow'r,
But kindly aid your yet unfinish'd search.

Not after sable night, in silence hush'd,
More welcome is th'approach of op'ning morn,
‘With song of early birds,’ than the fresh breeze
Of soften'd air succeeding sultry heat,
And the wild tumult of the buzzing day.

Nor think, tho' much is past, that nought remains,
Or nought of beauty, or attractive worth,
Save what the morning-sun, or noon-tide ray,
Hath, with his rising beam, distinctly mark'd,
Or more confus'dly, with meridian blaze,
Daz'ling display'd imperfect. Downward he
Shall other hills illumine opposite,
And other vales as beauteous as the past;
Suggesting to the Muse new argument,
And fresh instruction for her closing lay.

There Dasset's ridgy mountain courts the song.
Scarce Malvern boasts his adverse boundary
More graceful. Like the tempest-driven wave,
Irregularly great, his bare tops brave

111

The winds, and, on his sides, the fat'ning ox
Crops the rich verdure. When at Hastings' field,
The Norman Conqueror a kingdom won
In this fair Isle, and to another race
The Saxon pow'r transferr'd; an alien lord,
Companion of his toil! by sov'reign grant,
These airy fields obtain'd. Now the tall Mount,
By claim more just, a nobler master owns;
To tyrant force, and slavish laws a foe.
But happier lands, near Ouse's reedy shore,
(What leisure ardent love of public weal
Permits) his care employ; where Nature's charms
With learned Art combin'd; the richest domes,
And fairest lawns, adorn'd with ev'ry grace
Of beauty, or magnificent design,
By Cobham's eye approv'd, or Grenville plann'd,
The villas of imperial Rome outvie;
And form a scene of statelier pomp—a Stowe.
Her walls the living boast, these boast the dead,
Beneath their roof, in sacred dust entomb'd.

112

Lie light, O earth! on that illustrious Dame ,
Who, from her own prolific womb deriv'd,
To people thy green orb, successive saw
Sev'n times an hundred births. A goodlier train!
Than that, with which the Patriarch journey'd erst
From Padan-Aram, to the Mamrean plains:
Or that more num'rous, which, with large increase,
At Joseph's call, in wond'rous caravans,
Reviving sight! by Heav'n's decree prepar'd,
He led to Goshen, Egypt's fruitful soil.

Where the tall pillar lifts its taper head,
Her spacious terrace, and surrounding lawns,
Deckt with no sparing cost of planted tufts,
Or ornamented building, Farnborough boasts.
Hear they her master's call? in sturdy troops,
The jocund labourers hie, and, at his nod,
A thousand hands or smooth the slanting hill,

113

Or scoop new channels for the gath'ring flood,
And, in his pleasures, find substantial bliss.

Nor shall thy verdant pastures be unsung
Wormleighton! erst th'abode of Spenser's race,
Their title now! What? tho' in height thou yield'st
To Dasset, not in sweet luxuriance
Of fatning herbage, or of rising groves;
Beneath whose shade the lusty steers repose
Their cumbrous limbs, mixt with the woolly tribes,
And leisurely concoct their grassy meal.

Her wood-capt summit Shuckburgh there displays;
Nor fears neglect, in her own worth secure,
And glorying in the name her master bears.
Nor will her scenes, with closer eye, survey'd,
Frustrate the searcher's toil, if steepy hills,
By frequent chasms disjoin'd, and glens profound,

114

And broken precipices, vast, and rude
Delight the sense; or Nature's lesser works,
Tho' lesser, not less fair! or native stone,
Or fish, the little Astroit's doubtful race,
For starry rays, and pencil'd shades admir'd!
Invite him to these fields, their airy bed.

Where Leame and Ichene own a kindred rise,
And haste their neighb'ring currents to unite,
New hills arise, new pastures green, and fields
With other harvests crown'd; with other charms
Villas, and towns with other arts adorn'd.
There Ichington its downward structures views
In Ichene's passing wave, which, like the Mole,
Her subterraneous journey long pursues,
Ere to the sun she gives her lucid stream.
Thy villa, Leamington! her sister nymph
In her fair bosom shews; while, on her banks,
As further she her liquid course pursues,

115

Amidst surrounding woods his ancient walls
Birb'ry conceals, and triumphs in the shade.

Not such thy lot, O Bourton! nor from sight
Retirest thou, but, with complacent smile,
Thy social aspect courts the distant eye,
And views the distant scene reciprocal,
Delighting, and delighted. Dusky heaths
Succeed, as oft to mirth, the gloomy hour!
Leading th'unfinish'd search to thy fam'd seat
Bennones! where two military ways
Each other cross, transverse from sea to sea,
The Romans hostile paths! There Newnham's walls
With graceful pride ascend, th'inverted pile
In her clear stream, with flow'ry margin grac'd,
Admiring. Newbold there her modest charms

116

More bashfully unveils, with solemn woods,
And verdant glades enamour'd. Here her lawns,
And rising groves for future shelter form'd,
Fair Coton wide displays. There Addison,
With mind serene, his moral theme revolv'd,
Instruction drest in Learning's fairest form!
The gravest wisdom with the liveliest wit
Attemper'd! or, beneath thy roof retir'd
O Bilton! much of peace, and liberty
Sublimely mus'd, on Britain's weal intent,
Or in thy shade the coy Pierians woo'd.

Another theme demands the varying song.
Lo! where but late the flocks, and heifers graz'd,
Or yellow harvests wav'd, now, thro' the vale,
Or o'er the plain, or round the slanting hill
A glitt'ring path attracts the gazer's eye,
Where sooty barques pursue their liquid track
Thro' lawns, and woods, and villages remote
From public haunt, which wonder as they pass.

117

The channel'd road still onward moves, and still
With level course, the flood attendant leads.
Hills, dales oppose in vain. A thousand hands
Now thro' the mountain's side a passage ope,
Now with stupendous arches bridge the vale,
Now over paths, and rivers urge their way
Aloft in air. Again the Roman pride
Beneath thy spacious camp embattled hill,
O Brinklow! seems with gentler arts return'd.
But Britain now no bold invader fears,
No foreign aid invokes. Alike in arts
Of peace, or war renown'd. Alike in both
She rivals ancient Rome's immortal fame.

Still villas fair, and populous towns remain—
Polesworth, and Atherstone, and Eaton's walls
To charity devote! and, Tamworth, thine

118

To martial fame! and thine, O Merival!
Boasting thy beauteous woods, and lofty scite!
And Coleshill! long for momentary date
Of human life, tho' for our wishes short,
Repose of Digby's honourable age!

Nor may the Muse, tho' on her homeward way
Intent, short space refuse his alleys green,
And decent walls with due respect to greet
On Blythe's fair stream, to whose laborious toil
She many a lesson owes, his painful search
Enjoying without pain, and, at her ease,
With equal love of native soil inspir'd,
Singing in measur'd phrase her country's fame.

Nor, Arbury! may we thy scenes forget,

119

Haunt of the Naiads, and each woodland nymph!
Rejoicing in his care, to whom adorn'd
With all the graces which her schools expound,
The gowny sons of Isis trust their own,
And Britain's weal. Nor shall thy splendid walls,
O Packington! allure the Muse in vain.
The Goths no longer here their empire hold.
The shaven terrac'd hill, slope above slope,
And high impris'ning walls to Belgia's coast
Their native clime retire.—In formal bounds
The long canal no more confines the stream
Reluctant.—Trees no more their tortur'd limbs
Lament—no more the long-neglected fields,
Like outlaws banish'd for some vile offence,
Are hid from sight—from its proud reservoir
Of amplest size, and fair indented form,
Along the channel'd lawn the copious stream
With winding grace the stately current leads.
The channel'd lawn its bounteous stream repays,
With ever-verdant banks, and cooling shades,

120

And wand'ring paths, that emulate its course.
On ev'ry side spreads wide the beauteous scene,
Assemblage fair of plains, and hills, and woods,
And plants of od'rous scent—plains, hills, and woods,
And od'rous plants rejoice, and smiling hail
The reign of Nature, while attendant Art
Submissive waits to cultivate her charms.

Hail happy land! which Nature's partial smile
Hath robed profusely gay! whose champaigns wide
With plenteous harvests wave; whose pastures swarm
With horned tribes, or the sheep's fleecy race;
To the thronged shambles yielding wholesome food,
And various labour to man's active pow'rs,
Not less benign than to the weary rest.
Nor destitute thy woodland scenes of wealth,
Or sylvan beauty! there the lordly swain
His scantier fields improves; o'er his own realms
Supreme, at will to sow his well-fenc'd glebe,
With grain successive; or with juicy herbs,
To swell his milky kine; or feed, at ease,
His flock in pastures warm. His blazing hearth,
With copious fewel heap'd, defies the cold;

121

And housewife-arts or teize the tangled wool,
Or, from the distaff's hoard, the ductile thread,
With sportive hand entice; while to the wheel
The sprightly carol join'd, or plaintive song
Diffuse, and artless sooths th'untutor'd ear
With heart-felt strains, and the slow task beguiles.

Nor hath the sun, with less propitious ray,
Shone on the masters of the various scene.
Witness the splendid train! illustrious names,
That claim precedence on the lists of fame,
Nor fear oblivious time! enraptur'd Bards!
Or learned Sages! gracing, with their fame,
Their native soil, and my aspiring verse.

Say, now my dear companions! for enough
Of leisure to descriptive song is giv'n;
Say, shall we, ere we part, with moral eye,
The scene review, and the gay prospect close
With observation grave, as sober eve
Hastes now to wrap in shades the closing day?
Perhaps the moral strain delights you not!
Perhaps you blame the Muse's quick retreat;
Intent to wander still along the plain,

122

In coverts cool, lull'd by the murm'ring stream,
Or gentle breeze; while playful fancy skims,
With careless wing, the surfaces of things:
For deep research too indolent, too light
For grave reflection. So the Syren queen
Tempted Alcides, on a flow'ry plain,
With am'rous blandishment, and urg'd to waste
His prime inglorious: but fair Virtue's form
Rescued the yielding youth, and fir'd his breast
To manly toil, and glory's well-earn'd prize.
O! in that dang'rous season, O! beware
Of Vice, envenom'd weed! and plant betimes
The seeds of virtue in th'untainted heart.
So on its fruit th'enraptur'd mind shall feast
When, to the smiling day, and mirthful scene
Night's solemn gloom, cold winter's chilling blasts,
And pain, and sickness, and old age succeed.
Nor slight your faithful guide, my gentle train!
But, with a curious eye, expatiate free
O'er Nature's moral plan. Tho' dark the theme,
Tho' formidable to the sensual mind;
Yet shall the Muse, with no fictitious aid,

123

Inspir'd, still guide you with her friendly voice,
And to each seeming ill some greater good
Oppose, and calm your lab'ring thoughts to rest.

Nature herself bids us be serious,
Bids us be wise; and all her works rebuke
The ever-thoughtless, ever-titt'ring tribe.
What, tho' her lovely hills, and valleys smile
To-day, in beauty drest? yet, ere three moons
Renew their orb, and to their wane decline,
Ere then the beauteous landscape all will fade;
The genial airs retire; and shiv'ring swains
Shall, from the whiten'd plain, and driving storm,
Avert the smarting cheek, and humid eye.

So some fair maid to time's devouring rage
Her bloom resigns, and, with a faded look,
Disgusts her paramour; unless thy charms,
O Virtue! with more lasting beauty grace
Her lovelier mind, and, thro' declining age,
Fair deeds of piety, and modest worth,
Still flourish, and endear her still the more.

Nor always lasts the Landscape's gay attire
Till surly Winter, with his ruffian blasts,

124

Benumbs her tribes, and dissipates her charms.
As sickness oft the virgin's early bloom
Spoils immature, preventing hoary age,
So blasts and mildews oft invade the fields
In all their beauty, and their summer's pride.
And oft the sudden show'r, or sweeping storm
O'erflows the meads, and to the miry glebe
Lays close the matted grain; with awful peal,
While the loud thunder shakes a guilty world,
And forked lightnings cleave the sultry skies.

Nor does the verdant mead, or bearded field
Alone the rage of angry skies sustain.
Oft-times their influence dire the bleating flock,
Or lowing herd assails, and mocks the force
Of costly med'cine, or attendant care.
Such late the wrathful pestilence, that seiz'd
In pastures far retir'd, or guarded stalls,

125

The dew-lap'd race! with plaintive lowings they,
And heavy eyes, confess'd the pois'nous gale,
And drank infection in each breath they drew.
Quick thro' their veins the burning fever ran,
And from their nostrils stream'd the putrid rheum
Malignant; o'er their limbs faint languors crept,
And stupefaction all their senses bound.
In vain their master, with officious hand,
From the pil'd mow the sweetest lock presents;
Or anxiously prepares the tepid draught
Balsamic; they the proffer'd dainty loath,
And Death exulting claims his destin'd prey.

Nor seldom coughs, and watry rheums afflict
The woolly tribes, and on their vitals seize;
Thinning their folds; and, with their mangled limbs,

126

And tatter'd fleeces, the averted eye
Disgusting, as the squeamish traveller,
With long-suspended breath, hies o'er the plain.
And is their lord, proud Man! more safe than they?
More privileg'd from the destroying breath,
That, thro' the secret shade, in darkness walks,
Or smites whole pastures at the noon of day?
Ah! no, Death mark'd him from his infant birth;
Mark'd for his own, and, with envenom'd touch,
His vital blood defil'd. Thro' all his veins
The subtle poison creeps; compounded joins
Its kindred mass to his increasing bulk;
And, to the rage of angry elements,
Betrays his victim, poor, ill-fated Man;
Not surer born to live, than born to die!
In what a sad variety of forms
Clothes he his messengers? Deliriums wild!
Inflated dropsy! slow consuming cough!
Jaundice, and gout, and stone; convulsive spasms;
The shaking head, and the contracted limb;
And ling'ring atrophy, and hoary age;
And second childhood, slack'ning ev'ry nerve,

127

To joy, to reason, and to duty dead!
I know thee, who thou art, offspring of Sin,
And Satan! nurs'd in Hell, and then let loose
To range, with thy accursed train, on earth,
When man, apostate man! by Satan's wiles,
From life, from bliss, from God, and goodness fell!
Who knows thee not? who feels thee not within,
Plucking his heart-strings? whom hast thou not robb'd
Of parent, wife, or friend, as thou hast me?
Glutting the grave with ever-crowding guests,
And, with their image, sad'ning ev'ry scene,
Less peopled with the living than the dead!

Thro' populous streets the never-ceasing bell
Proclaims, with solemn sound, the parting breath;
Nor seldom from the village-tow'r is heard
The mournful knell. Alike the grassy ridge,
With osiers bound, and vaulted catacomb,
His spoils inclose. Alike the simple stone,
And mausoleum proud, his pow'r attest,
In wretched doggrel, or elab'rate verse.

128

Perhaps the peasant's humble obsequies;
The flowing sheet, and pall of rusty hue,
Alarm you not. You slight the simple throng;
And for the nodding plumes, and scutcheon'd hearse,
Your tears reserve. Then mark, o'er yonder plain,
The grand procession suited to your taste.
I mock you not. The sable pursuivants
Proclaim th'approaching state. Lo! now the plumes!
The nodding plumes, and scutcheon'd hearse appear!
And clad in mournful weeds, a long sad train
Of slowly-moving pomp, that waits on death!
Nay—yet another melancholy train!
Another triumph of the ghastly fiend
Succeeds! 'Tis so. Perhaps ye have not heard
The mournful tale. Perhaps no messenger
Hath warn'd you to attend the solemn deed!
Then from the Muse the piteous story learn;
And, with her, on the grave procession wait,
That to their early tomb, to mould'ring dust
Of ancestors, that crowd the scanty vault,

129

Near which our song began, Northampton bears,
The gay Northampton, and his beauteous Bride!
Far other pageants in his youthful breast
He cherish'd, while, with delegated trust,
On stately ceremonials, to the shore,
Where Adria's waves the sea-girt city lave,
He went; and, with him, join'd in recent love,
His blooming Bride, of Beaufort's royal line,
The charming Somerset! But royal blood,
Nor youth, nor beauty, nor employment high,
Cou'd grant protection from the rude assault
Of that barbarian Death; who, without form,
To courts and cottages unbidden comes;
And his unwelcome embassy fulfils,
Without distinction, to the lofty peer,
The graceful bride, or peasant's homely race.
Ere, from her native soil, she saw the sun

130

Run half his annual course, in Latian climes,
She breath'd her last; him, ere that course was done,
Death met returning on the Gallic plains,
And sent to join her yet unburied dust:
Who, but this youthful pair's untimely fate
Must weep, who, but in theirs, may read their own?

Another lesson seek ye, other proof
Of vanity, and lamentable woe
Betiding man? Another scene to grace
With troops of victims the terrific king,
And humble wanton Folly's laughing sons?
The Muse shall from her faithful memory
A tale select; a tale big with the fate
Of kings, and heroes on this now fair field
Embattled! but her song shall to your view
Their ranks embody, and, to future peace,
Their fierce designs, and hostile rage convert.

Not on Pharsalia's plain a bolder strife
Was held, tho' twice with Roman blood distain'd,
Than when thy subjects, first imperial Charles!
Dared, in these fields, with arms their cause to plead.

131

Where once the Romans pitch'd their hostile tents,
Other Campanias fair, and milder Alps
Exploring, now a nobler warrior stood,
His country's sov'reign liege! Around his camp
A gallant train of loftiest rank attend,
By loyalty, and love of regal sway,
To mighty deeds impell'd. Mean while below
Others no less intrepid courage boast,
From source as fair, the love of Liberty!
Dear Liberty! when rightly understood,
Prime social bliss! Oh! may no fraud
Usurp thy name, to veil their dark designs
Of vile ambition, or licentious rage!

Long time had they, with charge of mutual blame,
And fierce debate of speech, discordant minds
Avow'd, yet not to desp'rate chance of war
'Till now their cause referr'd: rude arbiter
Of fit, and right! Unhappy native land!
Nought then avail'd that Nature form'd thy fields
So fair, and with her wat'ry barrier fenc'd!

132

Nought then avail'd thy forms of guardian laws,
The work of ages, in a moment lost,
And ev'ry social tie at once dissolv'd!
For now no more sweet peace, and order fair,
And kindred love remain'd, but hostile rage
Instead, and mutual jealousy, and hate,
And tumult loud! nor, hadst thou then been there,
O Talbot! cou'd thy voice, so often heard
On heav'nly themes! nor his fraternal! skill'd
In social claims, the limits to define
Of law, and right, have calm'd the furious strife,
Or still'd the rattling thunder of the field.

Across the plain, where the slight eminence,
And scatter'd hedge-rows mark a midway space
To yonder town, once deem'd a royal court;
Now harbouring no friends to royalty!
The popular troops their martial lines extend.

133

High on the hill, the royal banners wave
Their faithful signals. Rang'd along the steep,
The glitt'ring files, in burnish'd armour clad,
Reflect the downward sun; and, with its gleam,
The distant crowds affright, who trembling wait
For the dire onset, and the dubious fight.

As pent-up waters, swell'd by sudden rains,
Their former bounds disdain, and foam, and rage
Impatient of restraint; till, at some breach,
Outward they burst impetuous, and mock
The peasant's feeble toil, which strives to check
Their headlong torrent; so the royal troops,
With martial rage inflam'd, impatient wait
The trumpet's summons. At its sprightly call,
The airy seat they leave, and down the steep,
Rank following rank, like wave succeeding wave,
Rush on the hostile wings. Dire was the shock,
Dire was the clash of arms! The hostile wings
Give way, and soon in flight their safety seek.
They, with augmented force, and growing rage
The flying foe pursue. But too secure,
And counting of cheap conquest quickly gain'd

134

O'er dastard minds, in wordy quarrels bold,
But slack by deeds to vindicate their claim,
In chace, and plunder long they waste the day,
And late return, of order negligent.
Mean while the battle in the centre rag'd
With diff'rent fortune, by bold Essex led,
Experienc'd chief! and to the monarch's cause,
And youthful race, for martial deeds unripe,
Menac'd destruction. In the royal breast
High passions rose, by native dignity
Made more sublime, and urg'd to pow'rful act
By strong, paternal love, and proud disdain
Of vulgar minds, arraigning in his race
The rights of sov'reignty, from ancient kings
In order fair deriv'd. Amidst his troops
With haste he flies, their broken ranks reforms,
To bold revenge re-animates their rage,
And from the foe his short-liv'd honour wrests.

135

Now Death, with hasty stride, stalks o'er the field,
Grimly exulting in the bloody fray.
Now on the crested helm or burnish'd shield,
He stamps new horrors; now the levell'd sword
With weightier force impells, with iron-hoof
Now tramples on th'expiring ranks; or gores
The foaming steed against th'opposing spear.
But chiefly on the cannon's brazen orb
He sits triumphant, and, with fatal aim,
Involves whole squadrons in the sulph'rous storm.

Then Lindsey fell, nor from the shelt'ring straw,
Ceas'd he to plead his sov'reign's slighted cause
Amidst surrounding foes; nor but with life,
Expir'd his loyalty. His valiant son
Attempts his rescue, but attempts in vain!
Then Verney too, with many a gallant knight,
And faithful courtier, anxious for thy weal,

136

Unhappy Prince! but mindless of their own,
Pour'd out his life upon the crimson plain.
Then fell the gallant Stewart, Aubigny,
And Kingsmill! He whose monumental stone
Protects his neighb'ring ashes, and his fame.

The closing day compos'd the furious strife:
But for short time compos'd! anon to wake
With tenfold rage, and spread a wider scene
Of terror, and destruction o'er the land!

Now mark the glories of the great debate!
Yon' grass-green mount, where waves the planted pine,
And whispers to the winds the mournful tale,
Contains them in its monumental mould;
A slaughter'd crew, promiscuous lodg'd below!
Still as the plowman breaks the clotted glebe,
He ever and anon some trophy finds,

137

The relicks of the war—or rusty spear,
Or canker'd ball; but, from sepulchral soil,
Cautious he turns aside the shining steel,
Lest haply, at its touch, uncover'd bones
Should start to view, and blast his rural toil.

Such were the fruits of Passion, froward Will,
And unsubmitting Pride! Worse storms than those
That rend the sky, and waste our cultur'd fields!
Strangers alike to man's primæval state,
Ere Evil entrance found to this fair world,
Permitted, not ordain'd, whatever Pride
May dream of order in a world of sin,
Or pre-existent soul, and penal doom
For crimes unknown. More wise, more happy he!
Who in his breast oft pond'ring, and perplext
With endless doubt, and learning's fruitless toil,
His weary mind at length reposes sure

138

On Heav'n's attested oracles. To them
Submiss he bows, convinc'd, however weak
His reason the mysterious plan to solve,
That all He wills is right, who, ere the worlds
Were form'd, in his all-comprehensive mind,
Saw all that was, or is, or e'er shall be.
Who to whate'er exists, or lives, or moves,
Throughout creation's wide extent, gave life,
Gave being, pow'r, and thought to act, to move
Impelling, or impell'd, to all ordain'd
Their ranks, relations, and dependencies,
And can direct, suspend, controul their pow'rs,
Else were he not supreme! Who bids the winds
Be still, and they obey; who to the sea
Assigns its bounds, and calms its boisterous waves.
Who, with like ease can moral discord rule,
And all apparent evil turn to good.

Hail then, ye sons of Eve! th'unerring guide,
The sovereign grant receive, sin's antidote!
A cure for all our griefs! So heav'nly Truth
Shall wide display her captivating charms,
And Peace her dwelling fix with human race.

139

So Love thro' ev'ry clime his gentle reign
Shall spread, and at his call discordant realms
Shall beat their swords to plowshares, and their spears
To pruning-hooks, nor more learn murth'rous war.
So when revolving years, by Heav'n's decree,
Their circling course have run, new firmaments,
With blessings fraught, shall fill the bright expanse,
Of tempests void, and thunder's angry voice.
New verdure shall arise to cloathe the fields:
New Edens! teeming with immortal fruit!
No more the wing'd inhabitants of air
Or those that range the fields, or skim the flood,
Their fierceness shall retain, but brute with brute,
And all with man in amicable league
Shall join, and enmity for ever cease.

Remains there aught to crown the rapt'rous theme?
'Tis this, unfading joy, beyond the reach
Of elemental worlds, and short-liv'd time.
This too is yours—from outward sense conceal'd,
But, by resemblance of external things,
Inward display'd, to elevate the soul
To thoughts sublime, and point her way to Heav'n.

140

So, from the top of Nebo's lofty mount,
The patriot-leader of Jehovah's sons
The promis'd land survey'd; to Canaan's race
A splendid theatre of frantic joys,
And fatal mirth, beyond whose scanty bounds
Darkness, and horror dwell! Emblem to him
Of fairer fields, and happier seats above!
Then closed his eyes to mortal scenes, to wake
In the bright regions of eternal day.

The Earl of Mellent.

Dame Hester Temple, of whom this is recorded by Fuller, in his account of Buckinghamshire, and who lies buried, with many of that ancient family, in the parish-church of Burton-Dasset.

The seat of William Holbech, Esq.

An estate, and ancient seat, belonging to the Right Hon. Earl Spenser.

The seat of Sir Ch. Shuckburgh, Bart.

The Astroites, or Star-stones, found here.

The seat of Sir William Wheeler, Bart.

The seat of Sir Theophilus Biddulph, Bart.

The seat of John Shuckburgh, Esq.

A Roman station, where the Foss-Way and Watling-street cross each other.

The seat of the Right Hon. the Earl of Denbeigh.

The seat of Sir Francis Skipwith, Bart.

The seat of Dixwell Grimes, Esq.

The seat of the Right Hon. Joseph Addison, Esq.

The Canal design'd for a communication between the Cities of Oxford and Coventry, passes through Brinklow, where is a magnificent aqueduct, consisting of twelve arches, with a high bank of earth at each end, crossing a valley beneath the vestiges of a Roman camp, and tumulus, on the Foss-Way.

The seat of the late Edward Stratford, Esq; an extensive view to Charley Forest and Bosworth Field.

Seat of the late Right Hon. Lord Digby, commonly called, the good Lord Digby.

Blythe Hall, the seat of Sir William Dugdale, now belonging to Richard Geast, Esq.

The seat of Sir Roger Newdigate, Bart. Member of Parliament for the University of Oxford.

The seat of the Right Hon. the Earl of Aylesford.

“Sæpe etiam immensum cælo venit agmen aquarum,
“Et fædam glomerant tempestatem imbribus atris
“Collectæ ex alto nubes; ruit arduus æther,
“Et pluviâ ingenti sata læta, boumque labores
“Diluit.”

Virg.

“Hinc lætis vituli vulgo moriuntur in herbis,
“Et dulces animas plena ad præsepia reddunt.”

Virg.

“Non tam creber agens hyemem ruit æthere turbo,
“Quam multæ pecudum pestes, nec singula morbi
“Corpora corripiunt, sed tota æstiva repentè
“Spemque, gregemque simul, cunctamque ab origine gentem.”

Virg.

The Right Hon. the Earl of Northampton, who died on his return from an embassy to Venice, while the Author was writing this poem.

The Right Hon. the Countess of Northampton, daughter to the Duke of Beaufort.

A Roman camp at Warmington, on the top of Edge-Hill.

The Rev. Mr. Talbot, of Kineton.

Ch. Henry Talbot, Esq; of Marston, at the bottom of Edge-Hill.

Kineton, alias Kington. So called, as some conjecture, from a castle on a neighbouring hill, said to have been a palace belonging to King John.

Prince Charles, afterwards King Charles II. and his brother the Duke of York, afterwards King James II. were then in the field, the former being in the 13th, and the latter just enter'd into the 10th year of his age.

Earl of Lindsey, the King's general.

Lord Willoughby, son to the Earl of Lindsey.

Sir Edmund Verney, standard-bearer to the king.

Lord Stewart.

Lord Aubigny, son to the Duke of Lenox.

Captain Kingsmill, buried at Radway; whose monument see at the end of the Poem.

“Scilicet et tempus veniet, cum finibus illis,
“Agricola incurvo terram molitus aratro,
“Exesa inveniet scabrâ rubigine pila,
“Aut gravibus rastris galeas pulsabit inanes,
“Grandiaque effoffis mirabitur ossa sepulchris.”

Virg.

THE END.