Ere yet their Lares they forsook,
And loft the genuine British look,
The conscious brow of inward merit,
The rough, unbending, martial spirit,
To clink the chain of Thraldom gay,
And court-idolatry to pay;
To live in city fmoaks obfcure,
Where morn ne'er wakes her breezes pure,
Where darkest midnight reigns at noon,
And fogs eternal blot the fun.
But come, the minutes flit away,
And eager Fancy longs to stray:
Come, friendly Genius! lead me round
Thy fylvan haunts and magic ground;
Point every spot of hill or dale,
And tell me, as we tread the vale,
"Here mighty Dudly once would rove,
"To plan his triumphs in the grove :
"There loofer Waller, ever gay,
"With Saccharifs in dalliance lay;
"And Philip, fide-long yonder fpring,
"His lavish carols wont to fing."
Hark! I hear the echoes call,
Hark! the rushing waters fall;
Lead me to the green retreats,
Guide me to the Mufes' feats,
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 earlieft homage paid,
Be there my latest vigils made:
For thou waft planted in the earth
The day that fhone 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 fet,
At his great birth, where all the Muses met.
The Dryads swift that roam the woods,
The Naiads green that fwim 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 grac'd the rear.
They join'd their hands in festive dance,
And bade the fmiling babe advance;
Each gave a gift; Sylvanus laft
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 my feet unwearied ftray;
Nor fatisfied with one furvey,
When morn returns with doubtful light,
And Phebe pales her lamp of night,
Still let me wander forth anew,
And print my footsteps on the dew,
What time the fwain 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 caft in days of yore.
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 shed.
Or in the gallery let me walk,
Where living pictures feem to talk,
Where Beauty smiles ferenely fair,
And Courage frowns with martial air;
Though whiskers quaint the face difguife,
And habits odd to modern eyes.
Behold what kings in Britain reign'd,
Plantagenets with blood diftain'd,
And valiant Tudor's haughty race,
And Stuarts, England's worft difgrace.
The Norman first, with cruel frown,
Proud of his new-ufurped crown,
Begins the lift; and many more,
Stern heroes form'd of roughest ore.
See victor Henry there advance,
Ev'n in his look he conquers France;
And murd'rer Richard, juftly 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!
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