WINDSOR FOREST.
The groves of Eden, vanish’d now so long,
Live in description and look green in song;
These, were my breast inspir’d with equal flame,
Like them in beauty, should be like in fame.
Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain,
Here earth and water seem to strive again!
Not chaos-like, together crush’d and bruis’d,
But as the world, harmoniously confus’d;
Where order in variety we see,
And where, though all things differ, all agree.
Here waving groves a checker’d scant display,
And part admit, and part exclude the day;
As some coy nymph her lover’s warm address,
Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress.
There interspers’d in lawns and op’ning glades,
Thin trees arise that shun each other’s shades;
There, in full light, the russet plains extend;
There, wrapt in clouds, the bluish hills extend.
Ev’n the wild heath displays her purple dyes,
And 'midst the desert fruitful fields arise,
That, crown’d with tufted trees and fringing corn,
Like verdant isles, the sable waste adorn.
Let India boast her plants, nor envy we
The weeping amber or the balmy tree,
While by our oaks the precious loads are borne
And realms commanded which those trees adorn.
Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight,
Though gods assembled grace his tow’ring height,
Than what more humble mountains offer here,
Where, in their blessings, all those gods appear.
See Pan, with flocks, with fruits Pomone crown’d;
There blushing Flora paints th’ enamel’d ground,
Here Ceres’ gifts in waving prospect stand,
And nodding tempt the joyful reaper’s hand;
Rich Industry sits smiling on the plains,
And peace and plenty tell a Stuart reigns.
Alexander Pope, 1688–1744.