Th' impatient courfer pants in ev'ry vein,
And pawing, feems to beat the diftant plain;
Hills, vales, and floods appear already crofs'd,
And e're he starts, a thousand steps are loft.
See the bold youth ftrain up the threat'ning fteep,
Rush thro' the thickets, down the vallies fweep,
Hang o'er their courfers heads with eager speed,
And earth rolls back beneath the flying fteed.
Let old Arcadia boaft her ample plain,
Th' immortal huntress, and her virgin-train,
Nor envy, Windfor! fince thy fhades have seen
As bright a Goddess, and as chafte a Queen;
Whofe care, like hers, protects the fylvan reign,
The earth's fair light, and emprefs of the main.
Here, as old bards have fung, Diana ftray'd, Bath'd in the springs, or fought the cooling fhade; Here arm'd with filver bows, in early dawn, Her bufkin'd Virgins trac'd the dewy lawn. Above the reft a rural nymph was fam'd, Thy offspring, Thames! the fair Lodona nam'd, (Lodona's fate, in long oblivion caft,
The Mufe fhall fing, and what fhe fings fhall last) Scarce could the Goddess from her nymph be known, But by the crefcent and the golden zone:
She fcorn'd the praife of beauty, and the care;
A belt her wafte, a fillet binds her hair,
A painted quiver on her fhoulder founds,
And with her dart the flying deer she wounds.
It chanc'd, as eager of the chace the maid
Beyond the foreft's verdant limits ftray'd,
Pan faw and lov'd, and burning with defire
Purfu'd her flight, hér flight increas'd his fire.
Not half fo fwift the trembling doves can fly,
When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid fky;
Not half fo fwiftly the fierce eagle moves,
When thro' the clouds he drives the trembling doves;
As from the God fhe flew with furious pace,
Or as the God, more furious, urg'd the chace.
Now fainting, finking, pale, the nymph appears
Now close behind his founding fteps fhe hears;
And now his fhadow reach'd her as fhe run,
(His fhadow lengthen'd by the fetting fun)
And now his fhorter breath, with fultry air,
Pants on her neck, and fans her parting hair.
In vain on father Thames fhe calls for aid,
Nor could Diana help her injur'd maid.
Faint, breathlefs, thus fhe pray'd, nor pray'd in vain;
Ah Cynthia! ah-tho' banifh'd from thy train,
"Let me, O let me, to the fhades repair,
"My native fhades-there weep, and murmur there.
She faid, and melting as in tears the lay,
In a foft, filver ftream diffolv'd away.
The filver ftream her virgin coldness keeps,
For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps;
Still bears the name the hapless virgin bore,
And bathes the foreft where fhe rang'd before.
In her chaft current oft' the Goddess laves,
And with celeftial tears augments the waves.
Oft' in her glass the mufing fhepherd spies
The headlong mountains and the downward fkies,
The wat'ry landskip of the pendant woods,
And abfent trees that tremble in the floods;
In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen,
And floating forefts paint the waves with green.
Thro' the fair scene roll flow the ling'ring ftreams,
Then foaming pour along, and rufh into the Thames.
Thou too, great father of the British floods!
With joyful pride furvey our lofty woods;
Where tow'ring oaks their spreading honours rear,
And future navies on thy banks appear.
Neptune's felf from all his floods receives.
A wealthier tribute than to thine he gives.
No feas fo rich, fo full no ftreams appear,
No lake fo gentle, and no fpring fo clear.
Not fabled Po more fwells the Poet's lays,
While thro' the skies his fhining current ftrays,
Than thine, which vifits Windfor's fam'd abodes,
To grace the manfion of our earthly Gods:
Nor all his ftars a brighter luftre fhow,
Than the fair nymphs that gild thy fhore below:
Here Jove himself, fubdu'd by beauty ftill,
Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.
Happy the man whom this bright court approves, His fov'reign favours, and his countrey loves; Happy next him who to thefe fhades retires, Whom nature charms, and whom the Mufe infpires, Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please, Succeffive ftudy, exercife, and ease.
He gathers health from herbs the foreft yields,
And of their fragrant phyfick spoils the fields:
With chymic art exalts the min'ral pow'rs,
And draws the aromatick fouls of flow'rs.
Now marks the courfe of rolling orbs on high;
O'er figur'd worlds now travels with his eye;
"Let me, O let me, to the fhades repair,
"My native shades-there weep, and murmur there.
She faid, and melting as in tears the lay,
In a foft, filver ftream diffolv'd away.
The filver ftream her virgin coldness keeps,
For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps;
Still bears the name the hapless virgin bore,
And bathes the foreft where the rang'd before.
In her chaft current oft' the Goddess laves,
And with celeftial tears augments the waves.
Oft' in her glafs the mufing fhepherd fpies
The headlong mountains and the downward fkies,
The wat'ry landskip of the pendant woods,
And abfent trees that tremble in the floods;
In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen,
And floating forefts paint the waves with green.
Thro' the fair scene roll flow the ling'ring ftreams,
Then foaming pour along, and rush into the Thames.
Thou too, great father of the British floods !
With joyful pride furvey our lofty woods;
Where tow'ring oaks their spreading honours rear,
And future navies on thy banks appear.
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