Or, turning from the deeds of other days, 215
Towards yon deep groves direct the pensive gaze.
Come with me where, from many a foreign clime,
The varied marbles rise, the gildings shine;
To the free sky and laughing summer’s beam,
The paintings glow, the costly frescoes gleam; 220
And, by the idle winds of heaven laid bare,
Pomp’s gaudy pageant smiles in mock’ry there.
Wanstead!—thou spell to stay mirth’s flowing tide,
Warning!—to daunt the regal brow of pride,