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Its root is ebon-black, but sends to light

A stem that bends with flow'rets milky white;
Moly the plant, which gods and fairies know,
But secret kept from mortal men below;
On his pale limbs its virtuous juice she shed,
And murmur'd mystic numbers o'er the dead;
When low! the little shape by magic pow'r
Grew less and less, contracted to a flow'r,
A flow'r that first in this sweet garden smil❜d,
To virgins sacred, and the Snow-drop styl’d.

The new-born plant with sweet regret she view'd,
Warm'd with her sighs, and with her tears bedew'd,
Its ripen'd seeds from bank to bank convey'd,
And with her lover whiten'd half the shade:
Thus won from death each spring she sees him grow,
And glories in the vegetable snow,

Which now increas'd through wide Britannia's plains
Its parent's warmth and spotless name retains;
First leader of the flowery race aspires,

And foremost catches the sun's genial fires;
Mid frosts and snows triumphant dares appear,
Mingles the seasons and leads on the year.
Deserted now of all the pigmy race,
Nor man nor fairy touch'd the guilty place :
In heaps on heaps, for many a rolling age
It lay accurst, the mark of Neptune's rage,
Till great Nassau recloth'd the desert shade,
Thence sacred to Britannia's monarchs made.
'Twas then the green-rob'd nymph, fair Kenna, came,
(Kenna! that gave the neighbouring town its name)
Proud when she saw the' ennobled Garden shine
With nymphs and heroes of her lover's line,
She vow'd to grace the mansions once her own,
And picture out in plants the fairy town:

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To far-fam'd Wise her flight unseen she sped,
And with gay prospects fill'd the craftsman's head,
Soft in his fancy drew a pleasing scheme,

And plann'd that landscape in a morning dream.
With the sweet view the sire of Gardens fir'd
Attempts the labour by the nymph inspir'd,
The walls and streets in rows of yew designs,
And forms the town in all its ancient lines;
The corner trees he lifts more high in air,
And girds the palace with a verdant square;
Nor knows, while round he views the rising scenes,
He builds a city as he plants his greens.
With a sad pleasure the aërial maid

This image of her ancient realm survey'd,
How chang'd, how fall'n, from its primeval pride!
Yet here each moon, the hour her lover died,
Each moon the solemn obsequies she pays,
And leads the dance beneath pale Cynthia's rays;
Pleas'd in these shades to head her fairy train,
And grace the groves where Albion's kinsmen reign.

OXFORD,*

INSCRIBED TO LORD LONSDALE.

MDCCVIIT.

Unum opus est, intactæ Palladis urbem

Carmine perpetuo celebrare.

HOR. 1. Ode vii.

WHILST you, my lord, adorn that stately seat,
Where shining Beauty makes her soft retreat,
Enjoying all those graces uncontroul'd,
Which noblest youths would die but to behold;
Whilst you inhabit Lowther's awful pile,
A structure worthy of the founder's toil,
Amaz'd we see the former Lonsdale+ shine
In each descendant of his noble line;
But most transported and surpris'd we view
His ancient glories all reviv'd in you,

Where charms and virtues join their equal race,
Your father's godlike soul, your mother's lovely face.

* This poem is subjoined to Dr. Johnson's Life of Tickell.

+ Richard, second Lord Viscount Lonsdale. He died of the small-pox 1st Dec. 1713.

Sir John Lowther, one of the early promoters of the Revolution, was constituted Vice Chamberlain to King William and Queen Mary on their advancement to the throne, created Baron Lowther and Viscount Lonsdale in 1696, and appointed Lord Privy Seal in 1699. He died 10th July 1700.

Me fortune and kind Heaven's indulgent care
To famous Oxford and the Muses bear,

Where of all ranks the blooming youths combine
To pay due Homage to the mighty Nine,
And snatch with smiling joy the laurel crown
Due to the learn'd honours of the gown:
Here I, the meanest of the tuneful throng,
Delude the time with an unhallow'd song,
Which thus my thanks to much-lov'd Oxford pays,
In no ungrateful though unartful lays.

Where shall I first the beauteous scene disclose, And all the gay variety expose;

For wheresoe'er I turn my wondering eyes
Aspiring towers and verdant groves arise;
Immortal greens the smiling plains array,
And mazy rivers murmur all the way.

O! might your eyes behold each sparkling dome,
And freely o'er the beauteous prospect roam,
Less ravish'd your own Lowther you'd survey,
Though pomp and state the costly seat display;
Where Art so nicely has adorn'd the place,
That Nature's aid might seem an useless grace,
Yet Nature's smiles such various charms impart
That vain and needless are the strokes of Art.
In equal state our rising structures shine,
Fram'd by such rules and form'd by such design,
That here, at once surpris'd and pleas'd, we view
Old Athens lost and conquer'd in the new;

More sweet our shades, more fit our bright abodes For warbling Muses and inspiring gods.

Great Vanburgh's* self might own each artful draught

Equal to Models in his curious thought,

* Sir John Vanburgh,

Nor scorn a fabric by our plans to frame,
Or in immortal labours sing their fame :
Both ways he saves them from destroying Fate,
If he but praise them, or but imitate.

See where the sacred Sheldon's haughty dome* Rivals the stately pomp of ancient Rome,

Whose form so great and noble seems design'd
To' express
the grandeur of its founder's mind:
Here in one lofty building we behold
Whate'er the Latian pride could boast of old.
True, no dire combats feed the savage eye,
And strew the sand with sportive cruelty;
But more adorn'd with what the Muse inspires,
It far outshines their bloody theatres.

Delightful scene! when here in equal verse
The youthful bards their godlike queen rehearse,
To Churchill's wreaths Apollo's laurel join,
And sing the plains of Hochstet and Judoign.
Next let the Muse record our Bodley's seatt
Nor aim at numbers like the subject great.
All hail! thou fabric sacred to the Nine,
Thy fame immortal and thy form divine!
Who to thy praise attempts the dangerous flight
Should in thy various tongues be taught to write;
His verse, like thee, a lofty dress should wear,
And breathe the genius which inhabits there;
Thy proper lays alone can make thee live,
And pay that fame which first thyself did give :
So fountains which through secret channels flow,
And pour above, the floods they take below,
Back to their father Ocean urge their way,
And to the sea the streams it gave repay.

*The Theatre.

+ The Bodleian Library.

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