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Lead me to the green retreats,

Guide me to the Mufes' feats,

C

Where ancient bards retirement chofe,
Or ancient lovers wept their woes.
What Genius points to yonder oak?
What rapture does my foul provoke ?
There let me hang a garland high,
There let my Mufe her accents try;
Be there my earliest homage paid,
Be there my latest vigils made:
For thou waft planted in the earth
The day that shone on Sidney's birth.
That happy time, that glorious day
The Muses came in concert gay;
With harps in tune, and ready fong,
The jolly Chorus tript along;
In honour of th' aufpicious morn,
To hail an infant genius born :
Next came the Fauns in order meet,

The Satyrs next with cloven feet,

. An oak in Penfhurft park, planted the day Sir Philip Sidney was born, of which Ben Johnson speaks in the following manner :

That taller tree, which of a nut was set,

At his great birth, where all the Muses met.

The

The Dryads swift that roam the woods,
The Naiads green that swim the floods
Sylvanus left his filent cave,

Medway came dropping from the wave;
Vertumnus led his blushing spouse,
And Ceres fhook her wheaten brows
And Mars with milder look was there,
And laughing Venus gràc'd the rear.
They join'd their hands in feftive dance,
And bade the smiling babe advance;
Each gave a gift; Sylvanus last
Ordain'd, when all the pomp was past,
Memorial meet, a tree to grow
Which might to future ages fhew,
That on felect occafion rare,
A troop of Gods affembled there:
The Naiads water'd well the ground,
And Flora twin'd a wood-bine round;
The tree fprung faft in hallow'd earth,
Co-æval with th' illuftrious birth.

Thus let feet unwearied ftray;
my

Nor fatisfied with one furvey,

When morn returns with doubtful light,
And Phebe pales her lamp of night,

I

Still

Still let me wander forth anew,
And print my footsteps on the dew,

What time the swain with ruddy cheek
Prepares to yoke his oxen meek,
And early dreft in neat array

The milk-maid chanting fhrill her lay,
Comes abroad with milking pail ;

And the found of diftant flail

Gives the ear a rough good-morrow,
And the lark from out his furrow
Soars upright on matin wings,
And at the gate of heaven fings.

But when the fun with fervid ray
Drives upwards to his noon of day,
And couching oxen lay them down
Beneath the beechen umbrage brown;
Then let me wander in the hall,
Round whofe antique-vifag'd wall

Hangs the armour Britons wore,
Rudely cast in days of yöre.

Yon fword fome heroe's arm might wield,
Red in the ranks of Chalgrave's field,
Where ever-glorious Hampden bled,
And Freedom tears of forrow fhed.

Or

Or in the gallery let me walk,
Where living pictures feem to talk,
Where Beauty fmiles ferenely fair,
And Courage frowns with martial air;
Though whiskers quaint the face disguise,
And habits odd to modern eyes.
Behold what kings in Britain reign'd,
Plantagenets with blood distain'd,
And valiant Tudor's haughty race,
And Stuarts, England's worst disgrace.
The Norman firft, with cruel frown,
Proud of his new-ufurped crown,
Begins the lift; and many more,
Stern heroes form'd of rougheft ore.
See victor Henry there advance,
Ev'n in his look he conquers France;
And murd'rer Richard, justly flain
By Richmond's steel on Bosworth plain;
See the tyrant of his wives,

Prodigal of fairest lives,

And laureat Edward nurs'd in arts,
Minerva school'd his kingly parts:

But ah! the melancholy Jane,

A foul too tender for a queen!

She

She finks beneath imperial fway,
The dear-bought scepter of a day!

And muft fhe mount the fcaffold drear?

Hard-hearted Mary, learn to fpare!

Eliza next falutes the eye;

Exalt the fong to Liberty,

The Muse repeats the facred name,
Eliza fills the voice of fame.

From thence a bafer age began,
The royal ore polluted ran,

'Till foreign Naffau's valiant hand
Chac'd holy tyrants from the land:
Downward from hence descend apace
To Brunswic's high, illuftrious race;
And see the canvass speaks them brave,
An injur'd nation born to fave,
Active in Freedom's righteous cause,
And confcious of a just applause.

But chiefly pleas'd, the curious eye
With nice discernment loves to try
The labour'd wonders, paffing thought,

Which warm Italian pencils wrought;

Fables of love, and stories old,

By Greek or Latian

VOL. IV.

poets told;

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