With sighs I see the native oak
Bow to th' inexorable stroke,
Whilst an exotic puny race
Of upstart shrubs usurps its place,
Which, born beneath a milder sky,
Shrink at a wintry blast, and die.
I ne'er behold without a smile
The venerable Gothic pile,
Which in our father's wiser age
Was shelter'd from the tempest's rage,
Stand to the dreary north expos'd,
Within a Chinese fence inclos'd.
For me, each leaden God may reign
In quiet o'er his old domain;
Their claim is good by Poet's laws,
And Poets must support their cause.
But when old Neptune's fish-tail'd train
Of Tritons, haunts an upland plain;
When Dian seems to urge the chace,
In a snug garden's narrow space;
When Mars, with insult rude, invades
The virgin Muses' peaceful shades;
With light'ning arm'd, when angry Jove
Scares the poor tenants of the grove,
I cannot blindly league with those,
Who thus the Poet's creed oppose.
To Nature, in my earliest youth,
I vow'd my constancy and truth;
When in her Hardwicke's much-lov'd shade
Enamour'd of her charms I stray'd:
And as I rov'd the woods among,
Her praise in lisping numbers sung;
Nor will I now resign my heart,
A captive to her rival art.
Far from the pageant scenes of pride,
She still my careless steps shall guide,
Whether by Contemplation led,
The rich romantic wilds I tread,
Where Nature, for her pupil man,
Has sketch'd out many a noble plan;
Or whether from yon wood-crown'd brow,
I view the lovely vale below.
For when, with more than common care,
Nature had sketch'd her landscape there,
Her Conway caught the fair design,
And soften'd ev'ry harsher line;
In pleasing lights each object plac'd,
And heighten'd all the piece with taste.
O Conway! whilst the public voice
Applauds our Sov'reign's well weigh'd choice,
Fain would my patriot Muse proclaim
The Statesman's and the Soldier's fame :
And bind immortal on thy brow
The civic crown and laurel bough.
But tho' unskill'd to join the choir,
Who aptly tune the courtly lyre,
Though with the vassals of thy state,
I never at thy levee wait,
Yet be it oft my happier lot,
To meet thee in this rural cot,
To see thee here thy mind unbend,
And quit the Statesman for the Friend?
Whilst smiles unbought, and void of art,
Spring genuine from the social heart.
Happy the Muse, which here retir'd,
By gratitude like mine inspir'd;
Dupe to no party, loves to pay
To worth like thine, her grateful lay:
And in no venal verse commend,
The Man of Taste, and Nature's friend.
WHILE you, my Friend, from lowring wintery plains,
Now pale with snows, now black with drizzling rains,
From leafless woodlands, and dishonor'd bowers
Mantled by gloomy mists, or lash'd by showers
Of hollow moan, while not a struggling beam
Steals from the Sun to play on Isis' stream;
While from these scenes by England's winter spread
Swift to the cheerful hearth your steps are led,
Pleas'd from the threatening tempest to retire
And join the circle round the social fire;
In other clime through sun-bask'd scenes I stray,
As the fair landscape leads my thoughtful way,
As upland path, oft winding bids me rove
Where orange bowers invite, or olive grove,
No sullen phantoms brooding o'er my breast,
The genial influence of the clime I taste;
Yet still regardful of my native shore,
In every scene, my roaming eyes explore,
Whate'er its aspect, still, by memory brought,
My fading country rushes on my thought.
While now perhaps the classic page you turn,
And warm'd with honest indignation burn,
'Till hopeless, sicklied by the climate's gloom,
Your generous fears call forth Britannia's doom,
What hostile spears her sacred lawns invade,
By friends deserted, by her chiefs betray'd,
Low fall'n and vanquish'd!-I, with mind serene
As Lisboa's sky, yet pensive as the scene
Around, and pensive seems the scene to me,
From other ills my country's fate foresee.
Not from the hands that wield Iberia's spear, Not from the hands that Gaul's proud thunders bear, Nor those that turn on Albion's breast the sword Beat down of late by Albion when it gored Their own, who impious doom their parent's fall Beneath the world's great foe th' insidious Gaul; Yes, not from these the immedicable wound Of Albion-Other is the bane profound Destined alone to touch her mortal part ; Herself is sick and poisoned at the heart.
O'er Tago's banks where'er I roll mine The gallant deeds of antient days arise; The scenes the Lusian Muses fond display'd Before me oft, as oft at eve I stray'd
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