PART, I.
Needwood! if e’er my early voice
Hath taught thy echoes to rejoice;
If e’er my hounds in opening cry
Have fill’d thy banks with ecstacy;
If e’er array’d in cheerful green
Our train hath deck’d thy wintry scene;
Ere yet thy wood-wild walks I leave,
My tributary verse receive:
With thy own wreath my brows adorn,
And to thy praises tune my horn!
What green-rob’d Nymph, all loose her hair,
With buskin’d leg, and bosom bare,
Steps lightly down the turfy glades,
And beckons tow’rd yon opening shades?—
No harlot-form, dissembling guile
With wanton air and painted smile,
Lures to enchanted halls or bowers,
Where festive Vice consumes his hours.
Her mild and modest looks dispense
The simple charm of innocence:
And a sweet wildness in her eye
Sparkles with young sincerity.—
Lead on, fair guide, ere wakes the dawn,
With thee I’ll climb the steepy lawn,
With thee the leafy labyrinths trace,
Where dwells the Genius of the place.—
His large limbs press a prim-rose bed,
A moss-grown root sustains his head,
And, list’ning to a Druid’s rhimes,
He bends his eye on distant times:
While troops of sylvan Vassals meet
To cast their garlands at his feet,
And pipe and frisk in rings about,
Or parly with the Hunter’s shout.
And now a fragrant show’r he throws
Of blossoms from his curled brows,
And rising waves his oaken wand,
And bids yon magic scenes expand!—
First blush the hills with orient light,
And pierce the sable veil of night,
Green bends the waving shade above,
And glist’ring dew-drops gem the grove:
Next shine the shelving lawns around,
Bright threads of silver net the ground;
And down, the entangled brakes among,
The white rill sparkling winds along:
Then, as the pausing zephyrs breathe,
The billowy mist recedes beneath;
Slow, as it rolls away, unfold
The vale’s fresh glories green and gold;
Dove[[1]] laughs, and shakes his tresses bright,
And trails afar a line of light.
Now glows the illumin’d landscape round!
Ye Vulgar hence!—’tis sacred ground!
Hence to the flimsy walks of art,
That lull, but not transport the heart.
Nature, O Muse, here sits alone,
And marks these regions for thy own;
Here her variety of joys
Nor season bounds, nor change destroys:
Be mine the pride, tho’ weak my strains,
That first I woo’d thee to these plains;
Where Spring, in all her beauty drest,
But promises a brighter guest:
Where Summer yields her greens and flowers
To Autumn’s variegated bowers:
Smiles Winter, as their honours fall,
And bids his hollies shame them all.[[2]]
Ye sage Professors of design,
Whom system’s stubborn rules confine,
Can science here one blemish show?
Or one deficient grace bestow?
Emes,[[3]] who yon desart wild explor’d,
And to it’s name the scene restor’d;
Whose art is nature’s law maintain’d,
Whose order negligence restrain’d,
Here, fir’d by native beauty, trac’d
The foot-steps of the Goddess, Taste:
Won from her coy retreats she came,
And led him up these paths to fame.
Here ev’ry flower improves the gale
From the meek violet of the vale
To her, who flaunts in air sublime,
The woodbine, queen of summer’s prime:
While each delicious shade may vie
With those of boasted Arcady.
There sweet varieties appear
Of thickets, shap’d by nibbling Deer,
Of hills, that swell with gradual ease,
Wood-skirted lawns, and scatter’d trees;
Of vallies seen down distant glades,
That break the mass of mingling shades;
While nature’s attribute, extent,
Crowns each inferior ornament!—
On this green unambitious brow,
Fair Mistress of the vale below,
With sloping hills enclos’d around,
Their heads with oaks and hollies crown’d,
With lucky choice, by happy hands,
Plac’d in good hour, my dwelling stands;
And draws the distant trav’ler’s eye,
Enamour’d of it’s scenery;
Where all things give, what all express,
Content and rural happiness.
Where far retir’d from life’s dull form
Comes no intruder but the storm;
The storm, that with contrasted low’r
Endears the fair the silent hour.
Thus their wise days our fathers led,
Fleet ran their hounds, their arrows sped,
And jocund Health with rosy smile
Look’d on, companion of their toil:
Till tyrant Law usurp’d the land,
Stretch’d o’er the woods his iron hand,
Forbad the echoing horn to blow,
Maim’d the staunch hound, and snapp’d the bow.[[4]]
Here with fair peace and modest fame[[5]]
They dwelt, who boasted Bagot’s name,—
Go, Bagot, plead your country’s cause,
While senates listen with applause,
With fearless truth and manly sense
Detecting specious eloquence:
Great talents to the world are due,
Retirement were a crime in you.
Go, and receive your oaken crown!
Here, with no title to renown,
Leave me to loiter at my door
Beneath the spreading sycamore,
That canopies the sloping lawn;
And view the deer at early dawn
In troops come winding down the hill
To taste fresh herbage near the rill;
Or count at noon their slumb’ring heaps;
At evening watch their playful leaps;
Or hear the quiring of the grove
Give breath to harmony and love;
Or listen to the hum profound,
In the still air that floats around;
Or mark yon hills extended side,
Where turf and shade the space divide;—
Here the wood straggles tow’rd the plain,
The pasture there prevails again;
The heifer grazes on it’s brow,
Clamours the rook on trees below;
Gay golden furze and purple ling
Around their mixt embroidery fling,
O’er all, irregularly join’d,
Th’ according outline waves behind.
No dusky Cares o’er-hang the bower,
No Passions wreck the halcyon hour;
Nurs’d in the shade Reflection springs,
Smooths her white plumes, and tries her wings.
No leaf of autumn falls in vain;
No flower-bell droops beneath the rain,
No bubble down the current flows,
But life’s uncertain tenure shows.
Those thorns protect the forest’s hopes;
That tree the slender ivy props:
Thus rise the mighty on the mean!
Thus on the strong the feeble lean!
In yonder holly—blush mankind!—
A rare fidelity I find;
Like yours tho’ summer’s flatteries end,
My winter here hath found a friend.—
Hail faithful fav’rite tree! to you
The Muse shall pay observance due:
Whether in horrent files you stand
Round sapling oaks a guardian band;
Or form aloft a shelt’ring bower
Impervious to the sun or shower;
Whether to yon hill-side you throng
Ranging in various groups along;
Or on the plain, maturely grown,
You boldly brave the storm alone,
Or tapering high, with woodbines hid,
Rise in a fragrant pyramid;
Your vigorous youth with upright shoots,
Your verdant age, your glowing fruits,
Your glossy leaves, and columns gray
Shall live the favorites of my lay!
Alas! in vain with warmth and food
You cheer the songsters of the wood,
The barbarous boy from you prepares
On treacherous twigs his viscous snares.
Yes, the poor bird, you nurs’d, shall find
Destruction in your rifled rind.
Thus good and ill too often meet,
And bitter mingles with the sweet!
—Ye pedagogues! let truant youth
Imbibe from you this gen’rous truth;
That one humane, one tender thought
Is worth the whole, that schools have taught.